She remains a chaste,
Face, with a beauty paste,
Yet love, she begs to taste,
To satiate an amorous thirst,
Old age knocks in haste,
She fears a love heist.
All she got is hate,
For love, she waits,
Her eyes have baits,
Her lips have gates,
That close late,
Yet no mates.
She looks a saint,
Though with taints:
Her neck has dents;
Seen through a vent,
In her heart, a pain,
She'll always feign.
She's just hell-bent,
It's true love she meant,
Her beauty needs no paint,
Even if only there for a rent,
Let real love be in her tent,
But love whispers faint.