Prufrock, Revised

With no apologies to T.S. Eliot whatsoever...

The Love Song of A. Leanora Mortimearst
By R.K. Epstein

LET us roll then, you and I,
When the evening is spread out against the sky
Like a text message from an undesirable guy;
Let us Escalade, to a certain district of Meat,
Happily gentrified through PR heat
Purged of trannies who trolled the street
And carcasses hanging by their feet:
Streets that unfurl off the grid
Now laden with galleries where we bid
But lest you worry your entitled head…
No need to ask, “Are we on the list?”
Hello? We’re in the social register, we can’t be dissed.

In the club trustafarians wax and wain
Pretending they must ride the eLevated train.

And indeed there will be time
To wonder, “What to wear?” and, “What to wear?”
Time to pick a charity to co-chair,
Blonde extensions woven in my hair—
[They will say: “How her breasts sag!”]
My Tory Burch coat accessorized with Balenciaga bag,
My gown on loan, my tasteful promotional Jag—
[They will say: “I heard her husband’s a fag.”]
Do I dare
Start my own fashion line?
In a New York minute there is time
To decide if I should distinguish papa’s name from mine.

For I have been there, done that, seen it all:—
Have known the Cosmos, the Gins and Tonics,
I have measured out my life with Manolo Blahniks;
I’ve purged myself silly for the new line of fall
To be a size zero, requires wheatgrass colonics.
So how should I consume?

And I have known the eyes already, from the Chapin days—
The eyes that fix you in that awkward phase,
And when I am insulted, called out on Page Six,
When I am photographed in a boozy haze,
Then how should my publicist fix
The stories unfolding about my ancestors the hicks?
And how should I perfume?

I could be big in Japan
Sign autographs for my Oriental fans.
. . . . .
No! I am not Princess Leia, nor was meant to be;
I’m a socialite, one that will do
To swell a party, start a foundation or two,
Advise the junior league; sit on a board,
Pray my husband isn’t caught being untoward.

I grow old … I grow old …
I’ll inject botulism into my nasolabial fold.

Shall I part my hair? Do I dare to design a handbag?
I shall wear Dolce and Gabbana, let the tongues wag.
I have heard the debs chattering, hag to hag.

I do not think that they will chatter to me...

Oh, but surely you realize this is a joke,
Because I’m the bespokest of bespoke.
And if that isn’t enough to make me da bomb,
Recall my billing on socialiterank.com!