The Polite Term in Polite Society (Derriere)

Lyrics

Paris. 1720.
The air is warm with beeswax and lavender water.
A porcelain teacup, held just so.
A silk fan hiding a smile.
A word is chosen, like a ribbon for the hair.
Not the word from the stable, or the dock, or the barracks.
A word that wears velvet.
A word that knows how to bow.
Derrière.
It is the sound that matters.
The soft arrival, the gentle departure.
The little almond in the brain stays cool.
No alarm is sounded.
The heart does not quicken.
It is just a room, and a chair, and the polite space behind you.
Monsieur Watteau sketches in the corner,
catching the light on a silk gown.
He understands the curve of a thing,
and the word chosen to describe it.
At the opera, the dancers turn away from the audience,
a modesty taught by the same sound,
the same polite fiction we all agree to.
Derrière.
It is the sound that matters.
The soft arrival, the gentle departure.
The little almond in the brain stays cool.
No alarm is sounded.
The heart does not quicken.
It is just a room, and a chair, and the polite space behind you.
Imagine another word, a stone thrown through the window.
The teacup shatters.
The powdered wigs tremble.
The conversation stops.
But then someone whispers it again...
...and the room puts itself back together.
The shame is in the sound, not the body.
The word for the back part.
The word that means *behind*.
It leaves the front of you safe.
It leaves the evening unbroken.
Derrière.