One-thirty Sunday morning
Half-eaten canapés' and parsley sprigs linger on silver platters
Wax stumps faintly flicker au revoir
And weary CDs stripped of their jackets long for asylum

In the punch bowl float exhausted slices of lemon and orange
And the dollops of sherbet have liquefied into a pink, lifeless froth
Once ample balloons have begun their pensive decline

Red lipstick has cheapened the elegant stemware
And the ice bucket is filled with lukewarm water and cigarette butts
The tonic has lost its effervescence,
rendering it unable to flirt with the gin

What was once vibrant and desired, now rubbish.