stained.

like the man whore at table four
shes only fifteen
and youre a dreadful bore

the crackberry clone
who sits alone
his world a piece
of plastic with buttons and chips

a gaggle of upper-middle class mothers
hover around table seven
too lost in their childrens lives to see
how they are fucking up the very kids
they strive so hard every day
not to fuck up
nothing to discuss, just summer camp.

the man on three, so plain to see
he drinks too much
lives too little
but i like him, he's quiet
and he tips a lot

newlyweds
at the bar
playing house
is anyone truly home?
reveling in the things
they aquire together
the money they make and the security they fake

your ego stains me, from across the room.