First Class

I drank a lot.
Not the expressed purpose
Of flying on the company's
First class policy.

Get there well rested,
Ready to rip up the joint.
I know Mom,
It's really just bullshit.

At seven I must have received
Some permanent psychic reward
For rejecting the 6 cent ice cream cone
In favor of the 4 cent one, sold across the street.

For those who claim
A high level of objectivity,
And crave "world class"
My mother, as my dibbuk, offers her disapproval.

If I’d had a choice I might be indifferent.
Overcoming gravity is difficult,
But has nothing on mother's "practical".
I will, perforce, find "world class" seriously flawed.

When next you stand on principle,
Choose the "good" over the "other",
Know that your decision was made by a group,
Who might find your haircut a sad affair.