The Curse of the Uncool

Take the hippest restaurant,
where everyone wants to go
where you can’t get a table for several years
unless you are in the know.

The place is so cool it’s frigid,
but the minute I walk inside
people complain that it’s stuffy
if they don’t actually run and hide.

“What happened to the cutting-edge atmosphere?”
asks a tattooed millennial tool.
“It’s simple,” I’d say,
if he’d look my way,
“You’ve been invaded by The Uncool.”

Or consider the stark haberdashery
where overpriced clothing is sold.
Even the mannequins have attitudes,
worse than the sales help I’m told.

The inventory comes in twelve shades of black
to adorn your torso from front to back
but I cause all present to turn and stare
when I ask “Is this sweater wash ‘n wear?”

The hipster holding a thirty-dollar t-shirt
that he thought at first quite a jewel
is suddenly overcome with a sense of dread–
he loathes to be near The Uncool.

I have this effect on people, I fear,
I don’t know how I first acquired it.
I’d be happy to pass it along to young folks
but none of them seem to admire it.

Une petit boit de nuit
as the French would say
isn’t safe from my death-ray.
I can unmake a day
that you thought complete
whether you’re low or very effete
by just being myself, in my own special way,
in a manner that many might even think cruel
and exposing you to The Curse of the Uncool.

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