The Function

Three chewy prawns
On a large plastic spoon,

Grieving in a lettuce leaf,
Dreaming of better days;

The reception was filled
With the same old faces,

The curtains hung
Like gently swaying corpses

Stretched out
Into velveteen tedium,

The carpet groaned stains
And the atrium farted dust,

Lethargy battled
Wafts of cheap perfume

And a ripe, gloomy air
Of disinterest and small talk

Hovered like smoke
In a colonial lounge.

He wanted to complain
About the canapes,

But his voice was already
Sat back at home.

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