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Thump, thump, thump,
the drums go on a great roll.
People march in fancy dresses;
people's hearts break into pieces.

There goes a long way
just to reach the first destination.
Through the nose, they pay
just to surely stay in the formation.

Some wear neon, especially those
who are great:
Mr. Idea, Dr. Inspiration, and
Mrs. Fate.

The next set wear clothes
of profoundly rich shades.
The angelic beast's is black;
it stains but never fades.

The next to the rich-coated men
were in pastel dresses.
A tall lady smiled at me with truth.
Rich in copper,
her hair falls down her back.
Or even lower.

"Thanks for staying with me,
Lady Prideful," says the girl of seven
to the lady.

The lady's dress seemed to be
the little girl's favorite.
It was colored mint, whilst the girl's
gown is just pink for a bit.

You can hear the clicks of
Lady Prideful's tall heels,
and they sound with the drum
and with the parade's feels.

It was not too noticeable,
but they all wear masquerade masks.
I still keep mines
burnt down in the laboratory's flasks.

I looked at the little girl
holding Lady Prideful's hand.
Her pigtails bring
my childhood and my playland.

As I looked at their relatives
around them,
she waved at me and said,
"Hi, I'm Little Fussbudget."

And I remember
my connection to her.
I translated her best letters
into poems to "make it better."

She tells a story.
And a part of me
wants to tell me
that the lady and the little
leads the parade.

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