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.