It was worth all the trouble I had getting there

Pretty people shaded by darkness, we gaze at the radiating presence on-stage. Pretty people, we drink drinks, we speak french, we listen to others speak french, the french french, the québecois french, the broken french, the pretentious french. There was the tale from India and a glass of wine. There was the tale from the UK and a gin & tonic. There was that disco ball that lit up and started sprinting the perimeter of the room. And there were pretty people. I was a pretty person too. I heard them croon, I heard some whisper, I heard some sigh. I saw some mouthing the words that were heard in the crooner's crooning. The cello was nice, so was the piano. And then that loud blaring noise. I covered my ears and I closed my eyes. Then I covered my eyes and I peeped through my fingers. Bad posture. The tire needed air, I needed to croon with the crooner and I did. I crooned all the way home, I crooned the lullaby titled "wake up," then I crooned another tune:

If this is the car that I must drive to the job
that I must have for the house
And the man I don’t love
Count me out, count me out