Wars

When she walks around this Rocky Mountain downtown; With a pretty-in-pink style Mohawk; She doesn't look like an eighties version of a bad hangover. While she obviously indulges in ballet classes, As well as the occasional psychedelic drug that circulates in her system. These days the drug users prefer rubbing alcohol mixed with ammonia. "Nail polish remover, anyone? Champagne with a hint of methanol?" Welcome to our party!" That's their raison d'etre. Which of these should really be the love that dare not speak its name, Instead of Morrissey's version of a fatal goodbye kiss man-to-man? I feel like calling out to her: "Nice leg warmers! They complement your ballet flats beautifully!" I have a feeling that she wouldn't strike me. Though I would get a dose of that lovable, yet snarly, punk attitude: At least in this town, yuppies in suits haven't tried to take over. The delivery of a punch won't feel as bruised; As a heavily insulted heart that burdens the walk; With an extensive, intricate system of weights. This electrocution-in-the-making shortcuts the system; That holds us up to the premise that we are victims. Not exactly in the nicest way: When image has become the definition of an inner deity; No introspection for resolution solves this mystery. When instinctive pleasures win over self-respect; That candy stolen from a baby bites back. So at least this girl has won a war: Maybe she won't last the battle. She refuses the enslavement of the fashion world; She takes over her own identity: No servant to the establishment yuppies or the fashion divas.