That’s Haught
Amongst the crowd, his pale gray shirt
Goes drifting, bouncing back and forth, bored
Amongst their desperate, grasping, vain attempts to flirt
His face, so rude, so pretentious, so haughty, reminds them of a lord
Mighty and high
Attractive and soft
But he meets each smile with an exhausted sigh
As if, he can’t stand the smiling brunettes, so far aloft
He sits
Annoyed, so basically, by those who admire him,
By these poor misfits
Maybe he thinks them lame or dim?
And looking back, I wonder now,
If his life played out, in isolation, left alone with those gifts, he thought he’d been endowed.
