from the color of her hair
to the shape of the shirt draped over her breasts
her class is shouted
the aesthetic speaks volumes for us to learn

i hope he notices what he can
while he is able to make it out alive
the heirlooms of lust
are not more than heirlooms of loss

As he gazes upon her painted face
i hope he sees the many hands
that have past their dirty fingers along skin so soft
none washed, none cleaned, none as genuine as either party would hope

its not her smile
its not her walk
and its not her voice
she is nothing but poison

my boy, will learn this later than sooner
and won't know what to do with it all