Living with my nose in the air,
sniffing for the latest party to find,
a chamber of lost souls come together
like birds of a feather to have some wine.
Much more than that is had, though not thought bad
by the patrons who attend, but of course!
This is how parties are had,
and they could be worse.
Yesteryear was that without fear.
No inhibitions that would let you miss one night,
nor any one of your societal chains
with the various forms of funny poison obtained.
Yet no matter what it was with who,
those times are over;
even for the master of ceremonies himself.
A time comes when we all grow up and grow out
in all directions at once like a blooming daisy
in the springtime, no more juvenile guile
that makes all of it worthwhile.
The party is done. There will be other kinds to come
yet none so dangerous as to warrant worry.
Let’s live long.