The Socialite
Canary girl, we both know what you are.
A cynosure. I pity you.
We monde envy your voice
but know the lyrics to your torch song
are just what you’ve been trained.
They move no one.
You’re the first we want
to throw to the coal mine.
So keep going. Be useful.
Be beautiful, be decoration.
Be happy. Be nothing more.
Be nothing.
Parrot what you must to entertain us.
Show all your yellow feathers.
Then you might just be the songbird we want—
for a little while. That is, until you
see the cage around you and your beak rots out
and your plumage drops down and
your pen stinks too badly for anyone’s living room.
Poor thing, you were never
meant to fly.
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