The fuss I am

 Oh the fuss I am he said
The anxious nausea ahead
liquid like being sipped I'd say
to get us through an underwhelming day

the fuss I am
the fine clothes I demand
the right words to spew
associations I grew

smooth as the ruse
i believe I'm smooth
rolling off the ability
to vanglorify my self supercilious

the fuss I am dominates so brace for
the petulance that comes over my face
like a warm inviting smile cold and stoney
flooding this prodigious sanctimony

The fuss I am sits shaking to attack
begging to foresee and pleading to pro act
pedantic and finical inside my own headlock
reaching for that blindfold while I continually mock

avoiding my hypocrisy
to not taste or smell leave me be
the pretentious fumes omitting out of me
So I can get onto the business of putting into view
 the criteria I need for judging the rest of you