5. Lyre

In my eighteenth year since I was born,

I became accustomed to observing

The dinner parties of higher-society,

From heights that were quite unnerving

  

I always enjoyed looking at fine things,

The men with their pistols and duels

And their pretty, expensive women,

In their pretty, expensive jewels

 

But this was by far the finest party

I had seen, without a doubt,

And I watched on silently

In fear of being found out

 

Lady Ellen became intoxicated,

Much earlier than usual,

And Mr. Radford became irate,

When she spilled her cordial…

 

While Captain Swarthmore bored the crowd

With his endless stories of war,

The Mr. John Fitzhughs bragged of their work

Of their good charity towards the poor

 

The host had to stop two of the middle-class

From coming uninvited through the door

While listening to the Captain’s heroic tale

Of a battle that he’d recounted ten times before

 

I thought things were getting rowdy when

One of the young gentlemen caused a fuss

But the hostess was only mildly peeved

That he’d landed an olive in her bust

  

I thought I might like to live like this,

In polite society, fine and austere,

“I want this,” I whispered to myself

… And that’s when I fell from the chandelier

The End

323 comments about this poem Feed