So this very proper family clip‑clops into the grandest talent agency in the kingdom in a carriage made entirely of gilt bad decisions.

They’re dripping in jewels, powdered wigs taller than their dignity,

starched so stiff they creak when they curtsy,

and the father bows and says,

“Good evening, sir. We have… a performance.”

The agent squints over his monocle, says, “You? You lot?

You look like you faint at the sight of an untied cravat.”

Father snaps his fingers—harpsichord strikes up,

footmen slam the doors, curtains crash down.

Mother swans to center stage, rips off the corset—

not the clothes, mind you, just the *rules* behind them.

She lights the etiquette handbook on fire,

stirs the ashes into the punchbowl with a silver ladle,

and serves it to the choirboys in the balcony,

who gargle it and sing a hymn in burps.

Grandmama, ninety‑seven and held together with lace and spite,

pulls out a deck of scandalous calling cards—

each one a rumor about the royal family worse than the last.

She deals them like a blackjack shark,

betting state secrets on who can curtsy the lowest

without passing out from their own perfume.

The twins juggle the crown jewels—literally—

while blindfolded, riding hobby horses,

shrieking the family motto in bad Latin.

They keep dropping the scepter;

every time it hits the floor another priceless vase explodes,

and the staff pretend not to see a thing,

because they’ve been tipped *obscenely* well

with bonds from three different wars.

The agent’s horrified. “Is this… is this legal?”

Father grins: “Only on holidays.”

Now the butler steps up, white gloves and dead eyes,

and starts reciting the entire list of household rules—

backwards, in perfect meter—

and with each rule he breaks in real time:

no feet on furniture (he’s tap‑dancing on the piano),

no drinking before dusk (he’s sabering champagne at noon),

no gambling in the parlor (they’ve turned the parlor

into a full casino with the Archbishop dealing roulette

and losing the cathedral roof on red thirteen).

The baby? Oh, the baby’s in the corner

writing everyone out of the will with a quill

twice her size,

and stamping each page with the family crest

like a tiny, drooling notary public,

then auctioning those wills to the household staff.

At the finale, the entire clan forms a kick line

down the banquet table,

sending silver platters flying,

goose fat in the chandeliers,

and the portrait of Great‑Grandpapa

spinning crooked on the wall like it’s dizzy from the shame

and trying to fall into someone else’s family.

Fireworks shoot out of the candelabras—

illegal colors, colors the King banned

for being “too festive for commoners.”

The hounds burst in wearing powdered wigs,

bay in four‑part harmony,

and the family bows so low their wigs slide clean off

and tumble into the flaming punchbowl,

which politely curtsies back before collapsing.

Silence. Smoke. A chandelier slowly gives up and falls.

The agent blinks, adjusts his monocle,

and croaks, “What… what do you call this act?”

The father dusts ash off his lapel,

the whole family straightens, smiles as one,

and they shout:

“The aristocrats!”