Four

The maitre d’, he laughs at me out loud
Which turns the heads of patrons in the room
I shrink and try to sink into the crowd
Attempt to hide embarrassment and gloom
While ev’ry beaming eye and smirking mug,
And coyly flirting twist of golden hair
And ev’ry stroke and turn and lean and shrug
Adds horrid, perfumed tension to the air
As shame brings sweat to palm and red to face
And harm is wished upon each grinning ghoul
I wonder why I cam unto this place
And if the fact I’m here makes me a fool
The lobster gnocchi wasn’t worth my pride
This five-star joint has brought me death inside

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