Snobbish ways 

enter with ease

to their perpetrator

no folly. Attention

is rarely chased after

but given, the wooed

recline and wait.

Little notice is paid

to ill manners or bad

behaviour, instead 

vulgarity duplicated

in the thousands.

Voices raised 

in indignation

no beacon, no call

to examine one's 

conscience, mere

slaps upon

bejeweled wrists.

To tout 

as special

is common fare

just a scroll 

and tap away.

Little Harry Lovelace preens

in transparent cellophane snobbery,

chasing shadows of believability,

gagging on leftover syllables,

pretense of someone special.

Merely a little peacock strutting alone

hiding mundane thoughts in mask of words,

thrown into frenzied crowd of snobs,

stripped of dignity and common sense.

In his vague attempt to absorb culture,

his charmed grace has lost its sparkle,

attempting to become what he’s not.

Little Harry’s mouth drips hypocrisy

fogged mirror reflects nothing more

             than his breath.

Would you believe it was a mere coincidence the following day that Lavinia was also chasing that little snobbish bastard John Peppard? After all the nasty things he did and especially the mayhem that shyster caused during the elections it was a worthy cause.

That night we both were out celebrating again by coincidence at the same club, our graduation as journalists from Fleet Street & Words College. We defiantly did not bring up the very first tasks we both had planned for the next day. But after spending a special evening and night together happily inebriated, I’m sure we did not recall everything!

The mere thought 

Of the morsels waiting 

For him

Chase away the

Demons of doubt 

And replace them with

Tears of joy

His gaze now

Fixed on the feast

Tuna and peanut butter

A vagabond's special

As he pays little mind

To the jeers 

And 

Judgmental eyes

From the snobbish 

Passerby

He rides the bliss

Into the night

And counts his blessings

For one more day

There she is on top of the pyramid

The cute girl like the cherry on top of a sundae

The boys chase her and she acts all shy

But in their cars she rules their world

With her little dress hiding big things

Her snobbish nose in the air

A mere girl seeking attention

Good or bad it does not matter

To some she is so saintly

To others a complete bitch

See her in ten years married to the jock

A baby in arms and one in her belly

Not so special any more

© M.Withers/M.Strudwick . All rights reserved.

Both the name The EriduSerpent/EriduSerpent

and any written material is owned solely by the above named.

Permission granted for all written material to be shared but not for profit.

Printing or publishing is prohibited without seeking permission first from said owner.

Little money soon expended

Snobbish imp on lofty pedestal

Vagabond vaunting vanities

Of ecclesiastical proportions

Stop it! 

There's more to being than

Mere manifestations of mental

Enslavement to things material

You say, "Money"

I say, "Manners"

What gives you fright? 

That you lose it all 

And the veil of pretense that

Cloaks your rottenness swiftly

Torn? 

Who do you think you are?!

Midas? 

Your ill-gotten golden glitter 

Soon fritter away

You are but bone and ash 

And foul malignancy

Little money soon expended

Vain-glory leads the little of heart

To their deserved grave 

Money, swag and craven soul

Money! 

And the endless chase...

Now what's so special in that? 

PS: Looking at you, Trump.  

"Dyke!"

A descriptor all too familiar.

Sometimes, I hear this alias so often

I forget my own name.

"God hates you!"

So what if he does?

Life has always been a mere struggle

Because of you.

"You're nothing special, deserve no rights!"

Special I'm not, of course, I'm aware.

But of course, we're obviously both not human,

So in your eyes, I'm nothing.

"Stop rubbing your lifestyle in my face!"

Will do, indeed.

For my 'lifestyle' is already practically nonexistent everywhere

But for within the news.

"Burn in He-"

Stop.

I've had enough

Of your little and belittling insults.

It's as if

You live your life to chase me

And ensure that my life

Is smothered.

You're nothing but a snobbish

Person who only cares

For themselves 

And themselves only.

I will no longer sit and wait

For you to break my mentality,

For you to break my bones,

For you to break me.

I am human, after all,

And so are you.

Why can't you understand that?

Why must you hurt me?

Why must you disgrace my existence,

Because I wish to be me

Without fear

Of being hurt?

Oh please, I beg for an answer,

Why am I less human

Than you seem

To be?

I wish to be treated fairly,

Because, after all...

We're all a little

Homosapien.

One mere little chase

That left no trace

Of the snobbish girl

Or the priceless pearl

The special detective's eyes glazed with fire

As he watched his perfect plan backfire

His resolve strengthened and his mind got sharper

And he promised to catch the little martyr 

She watched with fascination from her hiding spot

As she evaluated a peculiar thought

Tonight she had almost wanted to be caught

She's glad she listened to her second thought

She liked this little game of cat and mouse

And felt a sense of thrill when he had broke into her penthouse

She watched for one last second

But she had to go check-in

At the hotel across the street

And see how long it would be until they next meet

I wish I was more snobbish.  I could wear my snobbery about me like a coat.  Clashing colors borderlining on repellent with a splash of fashion that drives some to bask in perceived affluence.  In this way it changes the flow of the chase.  No longer is it me after you, it is you after me.  It's a little game, making the populous desire slivers of your approval simply by revoking it.  It's a dangerous game.  If you flinch in the staring contest of superiority, you are a mere mortal again.  Being special is addictive.  To fall from your self-carved pedestal is devastation.  The risk is impassible and so I remain as I am, too craven to play the better.