She fled the tin foil grips of her mother;
from the styrofoam and cellophane dinners.
First sporting couture and stiletto heels,
She took to high fashion and modern culture.
Her walk made the boys on the street anxious;
her urbane speech sweetened her kiss of class.

Sharp in all things aesthestic, she stood there
poised, with fingers straddling a cigarette,
shamelessly waiting for another dance.
All the boys were anxious at their tables;
dirty boys with crass tongues and greasy hair.
Unhanded, the boys left her, all askance.

She fucked selfishly, never heeding another,
but she didn't need to - her grace staggered;
her curves disarmed, and you were hers to use.
She never looked directly at your face,
preferring to keep her chin tilted so.
A match strike preceded a dismount, that bitch.

The allure of her wry smile never quit -
no, she didn't have an answering machine.