Knowing how to paint is key, so they say,
When to brush and stroke, or erase it away.
But some painters out there just cannot paint,
They keep adding and adding; makes me faint!
Without knowledge or a care for the rest,
These women slather on makeup with zest!
Some demonic possession is at work;
Like some creature in the dark on the lurk,
Waiting for a victim who they can jump,
To ****** and caress and um, ****…
But enough of these victims, these lost men,
It is these creatures of “virtue,” these women!
Who capture the eye of peers with disdain,
Who then suffer in agony and pain!
Let us look at this process at it’s core;
But not to the point where it is a bore!
How the blank canvas of a womans face,
Is slowly and precisely won through race,
Of multiple brushes dabbing at paint,
Trying to turn a sinner to a saint!
The fine brush used to paint plump lips bright red,
And pale powders of primer of the dead.
To seize the image of porcelain death,
To mimic the perfection of Queen Beth.
The slight graze of the check with some faint pink,
And the strong tracing of the blackest ink!
On the lids and the lash of the blind eye,
Who fails to see that their face is a lie.
But for me that is surely not the case,
For in the mirror that is not my face!
