Miss Haversham or Jilted John,
With no clue what’s been going on –
When the hero comes bursting into the church
To win back his one true love,
Then I’m the one who’s stood at the altar.
I’m the one who’s always left in the lurch,
Who only exists to get the shove,
Because my name is Chester or Walter.
(Hiring the organist, ballroom, and tails –
The invites and rings and the horse-drawn chaise,
Flying my folks in from New South Wales,
For untaken photos and uneaten canapés.)
Forever Paris or Rosalind,
Traded-in for the chisel-chinned –
The one who isn’t famous or pouty,
I’m the beta who’s got no soul,
The banker or techie or wonk who’s bland and nice.
You’ll all have quite forgotten about me
By the time the credits roll
I’m just another shallow plot device.
(I won’t be getting out of here for hours –
Shaking their hands, and arranging their lifts,
And someone still has to clear out the flowers,
And cancel the band, and return all the gifts.)