Hidden society

Wine them, dine them
A well dressed table
Hides a multitude of sins
Dry your tears on the corner of the tablecloth
Whilst the wine causes their gaze to swim
Keep your grimace of a smile, plastered on
Until the last taxi pulls away
You are always the hostess
You always win

Polite society.

This undercurrent of vague niceties
That aren’t so vague
Those platitudes of the ilk of “we’re fine”
“Everything is ok”
Scream-whisper of hidden, heavy meaning
While their glassy eyed smiles, though wide
Split at the sides
And you know “things” are anything but ok
Yet evermore, the court of common courtesy holds sway
We continue, on and on
Bursting at the seams of polite society
With each passing day