Scents of fragrant smoking coals, glamor is the scene.
Dancing figures create a blur, draping silks of gold and green.
Greetings from the family, of the nervous bride inside.
Mother's heart is eased and bursting out with pride.
Glossy red lips that smile through out the spacious hall.
Social gatherings and whispers resemble a royal ball.
Flowers decorate the space and the food is much too plenty.
No corner nor seat is left alone, nor is the bridal throne empty.
Ladies wander round with trays of Arabian luxury cakes.
Offering sweets galore, but to rot your teeth, one is all it takes.
Flowing gowns that sparkle and catch the traffic driving by.
Gold that weighs their arms down and makes their husbands cry.
Unsuspecting girls so pure, that sit flaunting all they've got.
And then the gawking eyes that stare preparing their final shot.
Whispers haunt the room and everyone smile as though unaware.
Religious folks that cross their arms and conversation they hesitate to share.
Then you have the oldies, that liven up the place.
They sing old songs and share advise and make use of all that space.
They inspect the henna and squint their eyes to whoever refuses to eat.
Shooing all the young ones to the dance floor, those with henna on their feet.
If you aint fat then your no good, for fat means health and stronger blood.
And if you aint skinny then you are lazy, any man who want you, ought to be crazy.
The hair do's always get me, I must admit they're quite a sight.
They try the modern styles, but never seem to get it right.
Bleach blond don't go with black roots, nor skin of caramel brown,
These deluded folk need some real advise on how to tone it down.
Wonderful things these weddings are, a comical day for me.
The things I hear and some woeful styles I see.
The whole arrangement is all meant well, and intentions are to please.
But I'd rather spend a day in the zoo, picking out the monkey's fleas!