A Saturday Night Barbecue In July Poem by DM W

This grubby, little tribe
gather like gremlins.
I see right through them
and their small town attitudes.
They deceive with
their contrived flattery.
As a poet outsider,
who has never been
prone to peer pressure,
I don't need this mob's plaudits.
In reality,
age old jealousies,
and animosities
prick their sluggish blood.
Their bodies are not equipped
for such malignant moods,
no matter how much
they frequent the local gym.
They cannot hear
the soft music under stars.
They have no sense
of Nature's stillness.
Indeed, they are blind
to eternities that dwarf them.
Too much jargon and coarseness
and not enough clear diction;
more lagers and beers
to alleviate mortal fears.
O how I wish I was a
million light years from here!