by Nick Gisburne
Society has always passed him by
A lavish game in which he plays no part
His name provokes a smile, but soon a sigh
“Agreeable,” they say, “but not too smart”
The bottle, almost empty, fills his hand
Still wary of discovery, he drinks
Politeness turns its face from what is planned
But he has ceased to care what this world thinks
He pushes through the ranks to take his place
The well-groomed lords and ladies step aside
The father leads his daughter in her lace
But he, voracious, leaps upon the bride
He rips the heart, still beating, from her chest
A vulgar breach of etiquette at best
