These people around
They’re wearing me thin
I can bear them for not much longer:
They’re obnoxiously extroverted
They talk more than they think,
With depths of thin-crust pizzas
Conversation of substance is a dream.
With their curtsies and hollow courtesies
I don’t wonder they have no time
To get around to the stuff that matter.
But umm, what is this stuff that matters
Ought I not, being not them, have it now?
Yet this disdain and superiority
Seems to hide only longing
Because despite all of this, you see
I need for them to like me.