By Iain Muir
She stands there, glory in white.
I look away, fearing the sight.
She radiates happiness, joy without end,
And I’m left alone: the bride’s best friend.

I’m happy for her, as I should be,
But the man she’s marrying isn’t me.
So I stand and smile, and I just pretend
I want to be nothing but the bride’s best friend.

I wish that I could hate the man,
But I just don’t think I can.
I can see that he does not intend
To let any harm near my best friend.

The priest will ask “who knows just cause?”
And I will have to stop and pause:
Do I leap up? Let Chaos descend?
Or keeping still, remain her best friend.

What right have I her day to spoil?
To ruin long, hard months of toil?
What I would wreck, I could never mend.
Is that the work of the bride’s best friend?

The vows are spoken. The words are said.
What hope I ever had is dead.
I sit there numb, as I comprehend
All I’ll ever be is the bride’s best friend.

The first dance is his, by custom’s decree,
But the second one she saves for me.
The thought occurs, as the music ends:
There are worse things to be than the Bride's Best Friend.
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