Everybody wants their balance,
That's what God made equilibriums for.
They have to make things difficult,
Pulling their way through the "push"-only door.
Expecting a drum roll and red silk carpets,
When they stomp red clay on the marble floor.

No laws of grammar are applied
In this backwards backwoods society,
We set all protocol aside
To keep pace with their impropriety.
We ignore the drunkenness they hide,
As they belch but feign sobriety.
We swallow remnants of our pride
To soothe their vain anxiety.
I tire of flirtatious glances
From septic workers who stink of rum.
They all ask me for a statement,
So I slowly tell them that they're dumb.