The Weekly Whine

On a whim I went out to the rooftop last night.
Fine views to be had there, they said. (They were right.)
Make friends with your peers--it’ll be such fun!
But apparently I have no peers: one plus zero equals one.
The others clumped together in gangs of two to six,
A savage sort of freeze-out that left me in the sticks.
There isn't any room in a throng so predisposed
To ignore the oddball elephant; to him all sets are closed.
Don't give up yet! I heard some upbeat mental voices cry,
Go back to the battlefield, and do the deed or die!
But what's the use of fighting when one's bruised and battered pride
Has long been dead already, like a fish that's caught and dried?
So after about an hour of this passive, sly abuse,
I giddied my disconsolate yup and cut myself loose.
Here ends my yowl, my rage, my belch, my weekly glass of whine . . .
I wouldn't wish such anguish on a lowly swine.