Writing Such An Egocentric Art

Writing, such an egocentric art; And who called for it to exist, And why is this ones words More to be relished, than that ones? Who has the truth and who the remnants? The biggest ego wins in all things; As the lesser ones call a truce, from humility alone, The bigger one moves in stealthily To fill up the enlarging room With his engorged bulk; Soon becomes full and throbbing With self importance: He resembles another element Commonly found in the presence of mankind- A noisy engine, of predictable annoyance Repeating it's own name, like a mantra.