Chèvre

The trouble with the way we fold our coats
When we arrive, to throw them on the bed
Before we join the party, to be fed
And liquored up on gin and ice cream floats,
Is that while we've been opening our throats
And calling out whole poems that we've read
Somebody took our stuff, and left instead
A flimsy cape made from the skins of goats.

I find that I can tolerate the theft
Except for one thing: not my allergies,
In spite of how the goatskin made me sneeze,
But rather that the cape lacked any heft,
And I was so cold, when we dressed and left,
That I stole all of the imported cheese.