Identity derived
By doing a mind, will and soul merge
With power perceived.
Crusted over with muck and slime.
About themselves,
They’re not apt to know it –
But blatancy blasts
And they usually show it.
Quick to affirm those seen as strong
And in agreement with those who smirk –
Repeating it all, by chapter and verse,
All the unwritten rules that keep them in place
Before going in to avoid doing any work.
Then to sit at a desk achieving nothing at all
And advance by being no smarter than
The most inexperienced dweeb
Who wears boss-worship on the sleeve,
One who was hired for all the wrong reasons
Which might add up to a dozen
Or might be just the seminal one –
That he knew little enough to not be a threat
To the power elite who take all they can get.
Incompetence has nothing to fear.
Yet another sycophant is here.
The sycophant has but one mission –
To be obedient and supportive
Of any idea (however misguided
Or simply immoral) from above
Whether sensible or not,
Consequences notwithstanding.
Whether helpful
Or gross mental snot.
The steps are tricky
And it takes a while to learn –
Don’t step on any feet upstairs
But smile and shame those with less power,
Then go home and feign cleanliness
With a hot shower.
Side-steps are nurtured,
Back-steps are ignored,
Forward ones are discouraged
Fancy inboxes are engorged
With empty sheets of nothingness
With pretense loud and clear,
The sycophant sees none of this
And thus, they need be feared.
They always move as if busy
Or sit looking thoughtfully bored,
Waiting for the next chance
To endear themselves
And advance to the very next floor.
When there’s no one available
For this person to follow,
The feeling is frightening, queasy
And uncomfortably hollow.
The move is to fill the gap
By stepping up one rung
And growing their own
Weed garden of sycophants
To reinforce what they’ve done.
The Cheshire cat’s smile is all
There is to see –
Giving vague directions to nowhere.
This is the very best they can be.
It’s not about knowledge,
But survival by proxy.
The sycophant remains well fed
By fluffing the pillows
On someone else’s bed.
They each hope someday to have some of their own,
Some groveling, mindless yes-folks
Who they’ve cultured and grown.
It isn’t just kissing the bottoms above,
It’s more destructive than hating and calling it love.
The ‘yes’ person sans skills
Who takes up a space
Draws the salary and does little
Where someone adept in that place
Might just do something that would make
Something better-
As it is, this brown noser is just
A useless go-getter.
Thoughts willingly managed
As a path to success –
When one reaches the top
There’s a terrible mess
That really looks fine
To sycophants in line
Who all agree that the
Emperor’s new clothes
Are as magnificent as can be.
Shamelessly and in every way
They hope to wear these themselves
One day.
If you need someone to trust
(Something that most of us sometimes must)
Don’t take your chance
On people you know to be
Sycophants.
Their souls have been encrusted
So that it is highly unlikely
That they can be trusted.
If you can’t do something for one,
Being their friend
Is a path toward
A dark end.
Slimy and green,
Mean when unseen.
The sycophant can be trusted
For only one thing –
Mindless agreement with those
Who hold power;
Valueless weeds
Who dress up like flowers.
Eventually sycophants may rise to the top
And that is when all useful
And productive work stops.
