10-20-2014, 02:06 AM
Revised
The muffled room in which we dine
at tables doomed for eight or nine;
the champagne glasses deftly clinked,
though champagne isn’t what we drink.
The chicken’s textured rubber duck
and vegetables are overcooked;
rain dribbles down the window-panes;
the walls exhibit ageing stains.
The waitress frowns absorbed, remote;
you shape a sound and clear your throat
then whisper something indistinct;
our stiltedness makes others wince.
The portraits yawn, the music ticks;
a napkin’s drawn to bloodless lips.
So many seats remain unfilled
to celebrate how time is killed.
Original
The muffled room in which we dine
at tables doomed for eight or nine;
the champagne glasses deftly clinked,
though champagne isn’t what we drink.
The chicken’s textured rubber duck
and vegetables are overcooked;
rain dribbles down the window-panes;
the walls exhibit aged stains.
The waitress frowns absorbed, remote;
you shape a sound, you clear your throat
then whisper something indistinct;
our stiltedness makes others wince.
The portraits yawn, the music plinks;
a napkin’s drawn to bloodless lips.
So many seats remain unfilled
to celebrate how time is killed.
The muffled room in which we dine
at tables doomed for eight or nine;
the champagne glasses deftly clinked,
though champagne isn’t what we drink.
The chicken’s textured rubber duck
and vegetables are overcooked;
rain dribbles down the window-panes;
the walls exhibit ageing stains.
The waitress frowns absorbed, remote;
you shape a sound and clear your throat
then whisper something indistinct;
our stiltedness makes others wince.
The portraits yawn, the music ticks;
a napkin’s drawn to bloodless lips.
So many seats remain unfilled
to celebrate how time is killed.
Original
The muffled room in which we dine
at tables doomed for eight or nine;
the champagne glasses deftly clinked,
though champagne isn’t what we drink.
The chicken’s textured rubber duck
and vegetables are overcooked;
rain dribbles down the window-panes;
the walls exhibit aged stains.
The waitress frowns absorbed, remote;
you shape a sound, you clear your throat
then whisper something indistinct;
our stiltedness makes others wince.
The portraits yawn, the music plinks;
a napkin’s drawn to bloodless lips.
So many seats remain unfilled
to celebrate how time is killed.
Before criticising a person try walking a mile in their shoes. Then when you do criticise that person, you are a mile away.... and you have their shoes.