Behold! The grand, illustrious hall,
Where windbags reign and voices sprawl.
With bloated chests and lofty claims,
They prattle loud yet play no games.
Each speech a tower, firm and tall—
Yet built on naught, they always fall.
Their vows, like smoke, do twist and fade,
Fine promises!—but none are paid.
Oh, masters of the pompous roar!
Who strut, declare, then do no more.
The world may watch, the world may jeer,
Yet still they bellow, year by year.
