In the grand land of Egotopia, Where dreams are spun so high, Lived a man known as Nobel Laurent Aka Professor Bigot, with ambitions to touch the sky.
He fancied himself a statesman,
A paragon of illustrious might,
Yet, his deeds told a different story,
One far from noble light.
With a heart so full of jaundice,
He cast his judgment wide,
No creature in the country
Could escape his spiteful tide.
The gnomes were too industrious,
The elves too wise and fair,
Professor Bigot found a flaw in each,
Though none he could compare.
He spoke with such conviction,
His words a honeyed flow,
Yet, those who knew him better saw
The truth they had long ago known.
For his promises were empty,
His pledges but a breeze,
His trust was but a phantom,
A flying, fleeting, fickle tease.
When he vowed to mend the bridges
That connected distant lands,
The villagers chuckled knowingly,
And sought alternative plans.
For Professor Bigot’s’ grand gestures,
Like beautiful castles in the air,
Would start with great fanfare
And end in disgust and disrepair.
He’d promise the moon and stars
To his compatriots both near and far,
But deliver naught but stardust
Of prejudice, a tarnished, empty jar.
His compatriots learned to temper
Importance, to brace for his retreat,
For Professor Bigot’s probity
Was a rare and fleeting feat.
In his pursuit of nobility, he donned
A cunning cloak of honor bright,
Regaling crowds with tales
Of deeds performed in hero’s light.
But those who heard with knowing
Ears could see the blatant ruse,
For Professor Bigot’s tall tales
Were fabrications, bold and loose.
The public opinion jesters, sharp of wit,
Would weave their satire fine,
Mocking Professor Bigot’s follies
In jest and clever rhyme.
“Beware the words of Professor Bigot”
They would warn with laughter free,
“For his activism unfurls whispers
Lost upon the morning sea.”
His fellow compatriots laughed
And nodded, for they’d all been deceived,
By the grand illusions Professor Bigot
Spun, in which he so believed.
He blamed his fellow compatriots
For failing to acknowledge, acclaim,
Yet, it was his own shortcomings
That darkened his fair renoun name.
Despite his lofty shiny speeches,
His actions and words told the tale,
Of a man whose grand ambitions at his life Eleventh hour were destined to derail.
For bigotry and falsehoods
Cannot form an icon true,
Nor can the cloak of honor fit
A narrowminded man who is untrue.
And so Professor Bigot wandered,
A figure wrapped in international jest,
A fervent living, breathing satire
Of a man who never bested
His peculiar fears and failings,
His faults laid bare to see,
A cautionary tale of what
A Nobel Laurent should not be.
Egotopia, wise and weary,
Turned to others for its guide,
Seeking those with humble hearts,
With honor as their stride.
Professor Bigot, left in shadows,
Pondered where he went astray,
In the annals of the country,
A lasting mockery in play.
Hence, ends the tale of Professor
Bigot, a man of grand deceit,
Whose story serves to caution
All on ambition’s slippery street.
For in the quest for greatness,
It’s character that leads,
Not the hollow, empty promises
Of grand, jaundiced deeds.
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Once upon a time, in the grand and bustling kingdom of Egotopia, there lived a man named king Bigot, who fancied himself a paragon of virtue and leadership. His exhilarations as an elderly statesman were as lofty as the towers of his self-regard. He strutted through the kingdom with an air of unearned confidence, his robes of imagined integrity billowing behind him.
King Bigot was known far and wide for his eloquent speeches and bombastic writing, which were as flowery as they were hollow. In his tribalistic jingoism, he spoke of spurious unity and justice, but his words were as trustworthy as a fox in a henhouse. The townsfolk often found themselves lost in wonder if he had ever met an honest word he didn’t immediately try to manipulate.
Despite his highbrowism and polished veneer, King Bigot was plagued by a curious affliction: he was a notorious scapegoat that would people to the garden path. His prejudices were as diverse as the kingdom itself. One day, he might be found railing against the hardworking gnomes for their industrious nature; the next, he’d be casting aspersions on the elven folk for their grace and wisdom. It seemed there wasn’t a creature in Egotopia that king Bigot couldn’t find fault with, save for himself.
His ethnic jingoism and deception weren’t his only flaws. Oh no, king Bigot had a track record of unreliability that would make even the most absent-minded wizard look dependable. If he promised to mend a bridge, the villagers knew to start looking for alternate routes. His pledges to improve the kingdom’s infrastructure were as effective as a paper shield in a dragon’s den. On the rare occasion he did start a project, it was usually left half-finished, a monument to his grandiose plans and lack of follow-through.
King Bigot’s inability to maintain commitments extended to his personal dealings as well. He was known to promise the moon and stars to his tribesmen, only to deliver dust and disappointment. His friends, what few he had, learned to take his words with a grain of salt the size of a small boulder. When it came to matters of trust, king Bigot was about as reliable as a mirage in the desert.
In his relentless pursuit of political power, king Bigot would often try to paint himself as an honorable man. He would regale audiences with tales of his supposed heroics, his imagined bravery, and his fictitious selflessness. Yet, those who knew him best saw through the thin veil of his self-aggrandizement. His deeds, or lack thereof, spoke louder than his embellished stories. His honor was as fabricated and deceit as the gilded statues he had commissioned in his likeness.
The kingdom of Egotopia was not blind to king Bigot’s failings. The court jesters would often poke fun at his many flaws, their satire biting and uncannily accurate. “Beware the promises of king Bigot” they’d warn, “for they are as fleeting as the morning mist.” The townsfolk would chuckle knowingly, for they had all been at the receiving end of his empty vows and half-hearted but jaundiced efforts.
Yet, king Bigot remained blissfully ignorant of his shortcomings, convinced that the problem lay not within himself but in the perceptions of the Igbo nation. He believed his failures were due to a lack of appreciation from the kingdom rather than his own inadequacies and prejudice. This delusion only fueled his ambition further, driving him to ever greater heights of self-deception.
Despite his numerous attempts to ascend to the role of statesman, king Bigot never quite managed to secure the trust of his own tribal people. His grandiose plans, marred by bigotry, unreliability, deception and dishonor, failed to inspire the confidence necessary for true statesmanship. He remained a cautionary tale, a living satire of what happens when one’s ambition outstrips one’s abilities and his prejudice outstrips his probity.
And so, king Bigot continued to wander the halls of power, a figure of mockery and a lesson in the perils of hubris. His legacy was not one of greatness but of a man who could never see past his own faults to become the honorable leader he so desperately wanted to be. The kingdom of Egotopia, wiser for his presence, looked to more humble and trustworthy individuals for guidance, leaving king Bigot to the annals of satire and folly.
