I'm always elated when asked to attend
A function of note by a thoughtful new friend.
Of course I said I'd be along for the ride
And go to the mayor's house to celebrate Pride.
It sat on a hilltop, and dropped off by Uber,
I entered the property in a good humor.
(I since had read up. My assumption was spotty.
The mansion belongs to the city, and not he.)
An email had asked us to "wear a strong lewk,"
But no fashionista would likely be shook
By a garden attired in whites, tans, and corals.
(You can count on a gay man to rest on his florals.)
The stars here assembled were nothing to balk at.
Freckle was there, as was Alia Shawkat.
The talent they hired brought life to our leisure:
The sumptuous voice of Anita Procedure.
Acquainted with few of the city insiders,
I drank my prosecco and ate seven sliders.
I found, wand'ring drunk, feeling exploratory,
A rose garden sown for your Instagram story.
Before long we heard that the mayor had arrived.
A podium promptly materialized.
An intro was given, and he then orated
On the fifth gayest city God ever created.
He listed the wins he'd made on our behalf,
Though sadly the speech had a definite gaffe:
Mistaking the queers for the keepers of peace,
He asked us who present would join his police.
He stayed for a second to stand still and smile
In many a sunny-faced photo. Meanwhile,
Distracted, I fondly admired his page,
A twunk wearing tweed. (I'm too shy to engage.)
I'm sorry to say there's no more to report,
Though I'd like to attend some more fetes of this sort,
So if you are planning a fun garden gala,
I hope at least you will give me a holler.
It ended at six and I left feeling pleasant,
Having had enough time in the heat for the present.
It left everybody there sunburnt and sweaty.
I cannot complain about Mayor Garcetti.
Austin Dale is a writer in Los Angeles.