Conceited

Wrap that threadbare shroud of self-respect around you, 
cover your eyes with those whims and fancies,
breathe in those airs you can claim as your own, 
tower over humbler mortals too subtle,
stamp down voices of reason coz they are different,
make yourself heard over your own din,
My, we are a spectacle, aren't we?
My, we are so obsessed, aren't we?
Lookee here, we are so good, aren't we?
You, who makes the dhobi call you Sirji,
My poor boy, you are but a sad little farji!!