The Ladies will sit and rumor,

Sit and nibble pound cake

Until they lay in the ground.

The speaker will thunder a thousand melodramas

From a thousand podiums

Until his headstone thunders some

“I told you so!”

At soccer moms jogging by.

One will stop and roll her eyes,

Recalling twirling in puffy yellow dresses

For her mom’s stuffy friends.

Their condescending whispers puffed a cigarette mist

Clouding the umpteenth speaker’s impassioned diatribe

As they sipped coffee from beans

Picked by the former slaves

Of King Tut’s great uncle

And ground smooth by African shamans

Under the watchful eye of Lawrence of Arabia.

Or so the A&P Label read.