Élan, Panache and Savoir-Faire
flop wearily down in their chair –
an L-shaped gray affair built to
accommodate their suave triumvirate.
Élan is blasted – feeling blitzed;
Panache has crashed – is on the fritz;
and Savoir-Faire has come down
with that jaundiced air of flu that can
afflict the likes of me and you when we
can’t take another word of small-talk.
But you’ll not hear them balk.
Élan, Panache and Savoir-Faire
will soon get up, go back out there
without a fuss. They won’t be taking us.
.
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