She dances with the imaginary insects,
transforming her thoughts into small paces,
her voluptuous swing follows the cheeta on her heels,
sorrounded by innocent men she smiles but rejects them all.
Not a beauty, her best attribute is gentleness but she covers it slowly as she crosses the gate,
she leaves a sharp trail of selfish regards as her words explain a history of alcohol and childish lunacy.
She talks about politics, history and music, an interesting woman you may say,
her pink lips contrast her white ruffled dress as she looks away,
deep inside she remains a maiden due to her interests on the bank accounts of the unfortunate candidates.