Voting with My Feet

I wish I could be fun at parties too:

Slap men across their backs and flirt with girls,

Tell ribald tales, play games with young blonde curls,

Shout, ‘Murphy, man, remember at the zoo!’

Instead I drink too much and hog the loo,

Avoid the crowd and wince at insults hurled,

Trip over doctors’ shoes, get caught in pearls,

Knock over priceless Mings . . . but then what’s new?

At home they thought me hapless, shook their heads

At all attempts to play the suave, cool guy,

Just said that I’d been born with two left feet.

So now I’m stuck at parties with fat Neds

With gorgeous dolls upon their arms. Bye bye,

I’m off wherever the real thinkers meet.