These PartiesAlan spits gin as he loudly pontificates
About his yacht and fascist politics
His megaphone voice bangs a drum in my head
But I placidly nod in agreement.
I hate these parties. I hate my boss.
Champagne and bourbon float in the air
Like a witches brew, it smells like decadence.
Smiling with my teeth clenched to deny the toxins
I placidly sway to the music.
I hate these parties. I hate myself.
I wait for another invitation.
Poetry by Hans Bump
Read 304 times
Written on 2021-07-08 at 13:58
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