A French connoisseuse, a blast, a hit,
Her hair twinkles in the night.
She loudly likes parks and
Rolling her feet in long halls
Of art museums.
As she approaches the glass,
Her hands are only as small as
Matisse’s ballerina’s shoe.
How blissfully she glances
Around the room, with a daisy in her hair.
But then she gets bored,
And...
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