Posted: December 22, 2010 in Uncategorized

I saw a triptych that depicted your strife
Through the stages it’s been, to a fault.
A tasteful criticism of the soon-to-be housewife,
At the beck and call of life’s default.

The first panel showed (with too much remorse)
A girl of nineteen, hair brown and styled up,
As proud and fanciful as a new show horse,
Before long however, time would drain her cup.

Her gaze became glassy,
Her life became stale.
There was no such thing as classy
When viewed through her pale ale.

And so she fell from the first panel’s graces,
Into the hard-edged and glitter-based friendships
Populated by empty and liquored-up faces
She had won from the way that she swayed her hips.

Her eyes they are bloodshot,
Her nerves are the same,
If not for that last shot
She’d be sick of this game.

What a shame that her life in second panel’s the present,
When life is a low point replete with contempt.
In time it is true she will come to resent
All the people around her whose lives are content.

She will stay in this snarling arrogant pose,
Like an animal backed into a corner,
Til the day she falls headfirst into her repose,
A visit to the coroner.

For truth be told as it should have been long ago,
Last panel’s the grave,
She gets not a happy ending, no shining hero,
To rescue her from her own midnight cave.

So ends the tale of this girl’s art piece
A saddening motion passed by the liquor halls all around,
For they’ve lost their greatest customer to eternal peace.
They’ll raise tankards full of irony and salute the sodden ground.


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