Inspired by a old Saturday Evening Post
At the stroke of midnight
A matire d', New Year's Eve
Solemnly stares out over the crowd as
the first chords of Auld Lang Syne
reveals confetti, revelers, party hats, wet kisses.
with each toot of a horn
the noise level increases
he grows tired
his silver tray now empty
Champagne flutes have spilt
He seeks a quiet corner
And stands steadfast
quietly to await in limbo
For the last guest to make an exit
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