Coursing

Polishing the silver tongue and straightening the tie
Born to wear the lions mane and mingle with the vile

White Mercedes on the lawn the party’s in the back
And by the time the guests are gone your eyes are painted black.

Racing to the top, a couth and continental brow, you’re standing out.
Fashionable blue, forever coursing through your veins, it’s not your fault

Ordinary company is always comatose
Confidence in ignorance we raise our glass to toast