Don't Let Suburbia Disturbia

I DON’T raise charming annuals, my voice or cocker spanuals.
I don’t wear Jaeger hats and suits that match.
I slink around Connecticut in some old skirt and petticut
And try to build my confidence from scratch.
With life so station-wagony, my Ford sedan is agony;
I feel just like a tradesman or a cabby.
The car-door has no monogram, and — though I shouldn’t give a damn
It’s little things that make a girl look shabby.

I have no horse to ride upon. What’s more, I have relied upon
My girdle, not my golf, to keep in shape.
I’m silent as a Buddha on the subject of Bermuda,
And I’ve never spent a summer at the Cape.
I’ve been in lots of places, but of course I lack the graces
So native to the folk who Rome-and-Paris me.
And — like a common gypsy — I was raised above Poughkeepsie,
A circumstance that always will embarrass me.

Among the sleek and cultured girls, without my string of cultured pearls
I’m shy as Neptune caught without a trident.
My gait is unaggressive, and I’ll never be impressive
Till I learn to make my conversation strident.
In restaurant or grocery, am I commanding? Nosirree;
I ask for things instead of giving orders.
It’s plain I’m far too hesitant to be a worth-while resident,
Much less a pride and credit to Miss Porter’s.

I don’t refer to riches or to lady dogs as bitches.
My parties are Plebeian and a bore.
Though everyone gets high enough, my Gibsons just aren’t dry enough,
And people wince each time they reach for more.
Although I’ve watched my etiquette since moving to Connecticut,
Among the parakeets, I’m still a wren . . .
In other words, a foreigner — ;is lonesome as a coroner —
All silent on my peak in Darien.