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Golden locks of hair, every step, cowers the blind,
Thinking ways to entice, she empowers the mind,
She’s always hours ahead, the rest an hour behind,
Broken hearts on chalk boards, don’t sweep chalk,
Under the rugs, an’ no matter how much sweet talk,
There is, she’s still unhappy, no wonder the drugs,
Help her so, the sleeping pills, help her sleep walk,
And the red dress she wears, it is just a cicada shell,
Her reading the Bible and Koran, only made a hell,
She wears red because, she’s the rose and its thorns,
Her body is her ego, for it only grows when it warms,
Summer, she shows skin, but for reasons unknown,
She’s in boys’ lives, for she tease sons spun home,
Hurried tries, to try and catch those blue blurry skies,
That she like to, when you speak to her, flirty eyes,
But at night, she gives them a disease, of worried cries,
In her school girl outfit, she walks by her mass graves,
The hopeless looks in their eyes, but her ass saves,
As it pass, sways, of skirts, but her days loves flirts,
Ones that never felt her love, the pardoned lament,
Their hearts, stone, like Pharaoh’s hardened cement,
Never diurnal, she’s only nocturnal, her locked journal,
Has been locked for years, she compose the dawns,
After her adolescence, only then she rose the pawns,
She is neither pros or cons, nor is she crows or fawns,
And she knows the brains, and she knows the brawns,
We covet what we see, every day, excessive cupidity,
Her Miss Takes, as her kiss waits, in less, its stupidity,
At night, she works, and in daylight, she’s saving time,
Her mind could build pyramids, she’s enslaving mine,
She sees her next victim, for he’s the black stereotype,
The woman in red can’t resist, the black berry so ripe,
Her laugh, with this man, it mimics a child’s laughter,
But a while after, its exposed as just her fake smile,
She taps her five inch heels, on the snow flake tile,
On his back, she wraps feet, and attaches her legs,
He lays his, but nine months later, she hatches her eggs,
Eighteen year trap, he’s paying bottle to twelfth grade,
And calls herself independent, and says she’s self made,
I feel like I’m a missionary, for as I’m warning cultures,
She’s breaking up with a poor sap, now swarming vultures,
Surround her every move, like she’s a walking feast,
When she enters the room, still, the talking ceased,
But the man doesn’t know he chases a stalking beast,
He boasts his bread inflated, as if he’s mocking yeast,
Looks like the woman in the red dress, strikes again,
The serpent disguised, let’s see if he likes the sin,