O, never say that I was foul of heart,
Though absence Sunday next might signify;
Too dearly do I love thee, for my part,
To foist a forced politeness on thine eye.
'Tis meet to share a pound of flesh with thee,
My beef, though, would be with thine other guests:
The pompous and the whingey and the twee,
With all their bootless cries and witless jests.
I'd fain not feign an interest or a care,
And they would say the same of me, I bet.
To neutral corners would we all repair,
And truly, thou deserv'st a better fête.
While thankful for the invitation, friend,
We'll both be just as glad I don't attend.