My Mistress' Eyes Are Nothing Like the Sun

My mistress' eyes are nothing like the sun. Her skin's mahogany, not regal white. She slaps on paints and fillers by the ton, and has the dress sense of an anchorite. Fastidious? Only in her brand of beer. Brash burger joints are where she likes to dine. She'd rather look at Fonzie than Vermeer: thinks maybe vampires dwell in Wittgenstein. It's Oprah Winfrey over Orson Welles, and Justin Bieber beats Thelonius Monk: she'll read "Hello!" before the Book of Kells, and Chateau Margaux's just for getting drunk. A fiery, funny, perky popinjay? I wouldn't have her any other way.