At the party, words soaked
Like mist shunted in cold rain
Falling by globs on a lonely morn,
Music played, both 'live' and canned,
All the long hairs fawning whilst not
Listening, maidens wore thin, colourful
Clothing that said 'I am not really here,
But, this is what I wear.' No true suitors
Arrived, they were all ensconced, glassy
Eyed, from smoke swirling and the music,
Listless and bland, drab, unnerving, trays
Of food served on paper junk china
Sat, sogged and still in the throngs
Of the empty conversations,
That went by and slowly
Drained and the sun,
As always came
Ever too late.
