Bourgeoisie

When I grow up,

I want,

A coffee mug,

With my name on it, or,

"I HATE MONDAYS," that,

Some friend found,

Smiled, bought,

Secret-Santa gift.

I want a mug,

Not cappucino cups,

Those bright-white,

Things.

Overpriced, hold your pinky up,

When you're drinking!

We are the bourgeoisie,

Fancy talk,

Fancy things.

Stainless steel refridgerators...

I want the old one,

That leaks chemicals, that,

Break holes in our ozone,

And kill animals.

A refridgerator I can cover with magnets,

Pictures,

Nice little things I see,

And notes about buying pizza,

When I'll be late for dinner.

Extra cheese, peppers.

Not a stupid, metallic...

CHROME, CHROME, CHROME.

We are the bourgeoisie,

So stop. Now!

This is what we are reduced to:

Shiny things.

Well-kept, preserved, as though,

We are famous.

Clear plastic wrap,

On an old cowboy hat.

People will not buy our things.

I want a mess, I want to be,

Forgotten, or,

Erased.

I want to accept that,

I want too much.

I am a needy girl,

And I must grow up.

The End

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