To whom do we owe the pleasure

of your enchanting spewing

graceful nature?

 

Around which many gather themselves,

a crowd to applaud your short comings,

and possibly a cheer or two.

 

Perhaps it was your chivalrous knight

in shining premium hair-care product

who lead you to

your quandary?

 

He bought your ticket to notoriety

in the sensuous shape of

a cold and frothy glass.

Hail Mary, full of grace--

 

I assure you yet there are better things to come:

She who will awaken beside this man the next morning

She who will measure herself against his failures

She who is much too tall to be in love

 

Yes, better things than that, for sure

But for now, revel in your infamy

For you have accomplished something

Too few people can

 

You’ve brought joy among a shaken

Restless, ugly, American crowd

For a night.