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Beauty Nightmare
From where I sit,
up in my chair
atop this great mountain of combs;
I can see the world.
Ladies pluck and primp,
a knight's fantasy in wax strips.
Fake colors imprinted in their hair,
highlighting the skies with dark hues.
They fake a lark's song and cry beautiful.
Men check out and hit on queens of the combs,
tempting them with gifts.
Like an avalanche falling,
I watch a woman argue about her bangs,
which aren't very attractive anyway.
From atop my throne of Redkin,
the nauseating fumes rush in
over taking my sense of direction.
I am over thrown
with hair pin daggers
and curling iron ball and chains.
By those queens of cool and style.
At the bottom of the mountains
I can see the betrayal and lies.
As simple as a phone call can convince you,
book ahead and save.
Save yourself from the beauty nightmare.
