She’s lovely and petite, Long flowing blonde hair, The target of constant Unwanted attention, The **** of many crude jokes. Though you can’t deny it There is a kernel of truth To every stereotype. Shallow. Yes she is shallow. Shallow as the flood waters Three inches deep, powerful Enough to sweep your car Into a watery grave. Superficial. Yes she is superficial. Superficial as the thin layer Of paint on a Renoir or Monet Colors translucent and divine Deep and lustrous Transporting the imagination To a world of romance and joy. Clueless. Yes she is clueless. Clueless as Sherlock Holmes As he solves a mystery as dark And complex as any labyrinth With nary a clue, save for a trail Of breadcrumbs and a scent of Gardenia. Airhead. Yes she is an airhead. An airhead like the thinnest of air Atop the mighty Himalayas where Holy men choose to transcend the Mundane and commune with Spirits subtle and ethereal and ultimately Unknowable. The world sees her beauty and perhaps Only her beauty, but they are blinded By their shallowness, superficiality, Cluelessness and a brain wallowing In the clouds of misty ignorance. Therein lies the joke.