The Victorian mahogany shall carry the delicacies to-night,
Adorned with subtle carvings, goblets frosted,
The frigidity and stillness of a corpse,
Splendid cutlery, china enameled pale,
Calla lilies contrived into their most alluring form,
Yet trembling under their stiffness.

A man is sitting, his cheeks thoroughly shaven,
He sports a tuxedo, swathed in a satin cumberbund,
His elegant Windsor Knot constrains the veins of his neck,
Those shameful little creatures--why should their pain ruin the evening?

The madam is taking her seat,
Her silvery hair visibly stained by a foreign brown,
Coiled like the intertwined body of a serpent,
Her aura is stifled with deceitful fumes,
Those ivory, aristocratic gloves choking her virtuous skin
Which meant no harm at all.

The Cala Lilies point longingly towards the window
Where the tempest roars its fervent tune,
Whether in pain or joy,
The trees dance in raw harmony,
Oscillating to and fro in the torrent of rain.

The man stands up in disgust.
“I do hope this undignified squall will not be of any harm
to this most wondrous occasion!”