An infidelity of devils,
Agog by their own softness,
Enamored by the well-to-do.
A brigade of bohemians,
With all their sworn attempts
To spoil the sad game.
What’s more?
They feed off the general complaint,
Complacent to the everyday affair.
And in return,
A phantom handshake at best,
The transparent glance, and,
The gum-bearing smile.
The appraisals, critiques,
And the creeps
Patching the nuance on their sleeve,
Rubbing it into the nose of decency.
