As she writes in day or moonlight
She contemplates definitions
Finding the figures televised
Are not models, but a condition
For the dead, it seems have become the dream
That man aim to worship and infatuate over
And this she find, as a woman, a girl
Is what's infecting the world like fever

Pale skin so white opposes the sight
Of her freckled, pinkly complexion
Vain within those whose malnutriton
Are posted as pure perfection
Lips of red the of which the dead
Show the blood that once flowed through vein
As Death runs his fingers through limp hair
The word "beauty” writhing in pain

And this, to the world, she also be the girl
The woman's aspiration, all in all?
This should be instead of true form
A copy, a replica, a doll?
To lie with each breath, beauty wrapped in death
To please mankind in sights of its end
Is a plight, in day or moonlight
She cannot and will not defend