The In Crowd

The folks I’m hanging with these days
Exist in all the normal ways
That you’d expect a person to
Except the being real part. Who
Can blame them? Being real’s a chore!
It’s terrifying and a bore
By turns both unpredictable
And stunningly, insanely dull.
People who, well, are, are nice,
Like fountain drinks with melted ice
Or houses with a ragged lawn:
Most people’s glory days are gone
Before we ever get to meet them,
Which is fine. We wave and greet them
As we pass them in the hall
But struggle later to recall
Their names (or maybe that’s just me).
Compare that with a fantasy
That’s only real inside your head,
Not quite alive, but so not dead:
Unreal wins, ‘most every time!
Please, don’t be offended. I’m
Just saying nonexistent folks
Are sexier, tell better jokes
And share their M&Ms more freely
Than their counterparts who’re really–
Which includes (extremely) me.
Healthy? No, but c’est la vie.


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