Take pity on the pretty ones,
whose burden is how they were made,
whose beauty wasn’t cast in bronze,
but flesh and bone designed to fade.
A dreamboat or a perfect ten,
our knees go wobbly in their wake,
the other women and the men,
adore them or they call them fake.
Such blessings are a latent curse,
they get to watch them decompose,
a process that they can’t reverse,
by rubbing cream around their nose.
It doesn’t matter if they care,
about the covers of their books,
when all their lives we point and stare,
they’re forced to focus on their looks.
I wonder if they had a say,
if they would pick the same again,
or maybe they’d meet God halfway,
with looks that got five out of ten.