Snub Flub

Ever been to a party of accreditation?
A “What you got on a plaque, Jack” validation
Soft hands sip sparkling wine from glasses clear
Your calloused palms hold aloft a toiler’s beer
They toast with chalice, you smile in silent malice
A country club, a polite “snub,” or an Ivory palace
They walk and talk with such hoity-toity ease
Manners impeccable, stylishly dressed
No indication of days on their knees
B.A.’s, M.A.’s, M.B.A.’s and P.H.D.’s
You stand alone, envy prone, feeling exposed, in working man’s B.V.D.’s
No Diploma, No Title, No Certificate, No Credentials
You're blue collar, no taller, lower, middle class “residential”
The “friend” who invited you, sometimes, likes to go “slumming”
But white collar soirees are telegraphed resentment coming
You work the corners of the room
Your wife can see the cancerous gloom
An early exit you unceremoniously make from “voucher game”
The final ignominy added to your to “deedless shame”
Your “buddy” of fifteen years, simply can’t…
Remember your name
And you curse yourself, because you know
Who’s to blame