Collapse of the Anti-ego

I don't like attention, no how no way:
I shy from it, point to others and say,
"Talk to them, leave me the hell alone."
But I pay for the pleasure
Of hiding from sight;
I bask in self-censure,
Deny any delight
By turning my back on the cavalcade:
I veer sharp left when most turn right,
Breaking ranks with the glorious see-me parade.
Put down the trumpets, sheathe the blades--
My presence does not merit accolades;
Silence the chorus and drummer brigades,
Send home the bouquet-bearing maids.
Lowly lone alleycat that I am,
I rap-tap on ashcan glockenspiels,
A solo performance, but never for long--
At the first click-clack of strangers' heels,
I duck under covers, a cowardly kitty
Who shrinks from praise, who's poisoned by pity.