Parties are for the Pretties,
the Perfects and the Prudes
the Pretties hate the Perfects,
all the rest are left to suffer
beneath their combined attitudes

One must listen to platitudes
that paints the sky so pink
The blue that bends so blindly
never barely connects so kindly
to the instance that it bled ink

Mindful of the mired muck
that insists my shoe should stick
insidious brown upon the ground
whispers words in rejection
leaving a life form I needs drink

For where I step is septic
solid ground is unsolid, at best
but my best foot forward
is  wearing pretty new shoes
mud caked, is my best guess