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They chew gums in compacted face,
Cheek-bones lining made-up skin;
They belong to the golden race,
Of foaming coke and shriveled gin.

They stare at you like you were a slave,
All through your seven lives;
They do know how to behave,
But only with middle fingers five.

Rags cheap, faking overprice,
Skirts shorter than a Chekhov story;
They believe their tangled hair to be nice,
But blush at selfish flattery.

They have lips that throw sarcasm,
At their own starving selves;
They fall for their own dark chasms,
In deep thoughts when their brains delve.

The only knowledge they possess,
Is of others’ destination;
The only wisdom they impress,
Is of disconnected imagination.

I wonder how they ever pass,
In their examinations upstart;
They think their shoes are class,
But it’s their gray cells that’re apart.

Posing their hands as if they were fractured,
They proudly exhibit their flaws;
Girls with majestic gestures,
Usually come in cycle-rickshaws.

-Pin Dew (02/05/2017)

Note: This is only to show how a Burlesque is written, no offense to anybody. Also excuse if anything seems inappropriate. I ask for forgiveness beforehand.

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