Parties Are Lame

Come in, come in, come in.

Welcome to my home.
We have appetizers and attire and satire and rum.

May I take your coat? You look simply

grand; I will show you around. No dog house,
no doll house, no fun to be found — only a grand piano that lies

in the ballgown filled ballroom, soaked in the wine of a small town.

Come in, come in, please, come inside;

drink some wine, drink my wine. My home is

freshly cleaned; a layer of plastic lies
sarcastic on all in your sight. Don’t be afraid

to spill your white grapes or your white lies

on my white marble tiles, they won’t make a sound in this small town.

Don’t come in, come in, please, please, stay away.
The chandelier is crashing and the art no longer

on display. The masks are coming off, mine will too
soon. When you taste the wine, you will never want me to.

So come in, come in, you will never want to leave.

 

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