A Saturday Night Barbecue In July

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!