Phat

We eat king cake for breakfast, and take baths when it's convenient. 

We are Mardi Gras.

Our fingernails are dirty and we have too many swords. 

We are Mardi Gras.

We want that cup, but when the boy behind us steals it, we let it go.  And we hand him the next cups we catch, because we're cool that way.

We are Mardi Gras.

Our homework is half-done, and our Moms don't care.

We are Mardi Gras.

We know the rhythms: drop back to the curb for the marching bands, rush forward once they're past. But not too far forward.  Let the riders know you're there.

We are Mardi Gras.

When that awesome throw comes flying, the one we've been waiting for, and it rolls under the float, we wait. We know better. 

We are Mardi Gras.

Our siblings are smaller, and quieter; we know what they like.  We yell for them.

We are Mardi Gras.

We never throw coins at Flambeaux.  We hand them bills, and make sure our hair doesn't catch.

We are Mardi Gras.

We link arms and sing pop songs en route to the parades.  We are young, like this night, full of possibility and joy.

We are Mardi Gras.