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.