She’s blonde, of course
And kind of plastic with her lips,
Her tits that were a birthday gift.
And when she shops for bags and shoes
She’s snapped by men with lenses zooming in
Up her skirt, getting out the car.
She’s got no brain, though,
Only there to hook his arm
When he goes to flashy parties and awards,
She’s there as something shiny to admire,
No feelings, she just smiles.
And in the latest photograph
That graced the glossy magazines
I thought I saw a tear.
It rolled its way, a rivulet
Down her cheek before she swept
An arm across her face.
An argument, or news that bubbles
Underneath that glossy smile. It hurts,
Those comments on the internet.
She may look fake, a figure of romantic fun
Who we can poke and prod with words.
But think. She’s hurting under there
And no one’s there to soothe her wounds,
Just money and her shoes.