Her painted eyes mock me
Unblinkingly from the floor.
Her taunts I do not hear, I see
And they pierce me at my core.
She knows in 50 years I'll have double chins
And wrinkles and gray hairs and excess fat.
While she keeps her perfect figure and rosy grins
And shiny blonde locks still arrayed like that.
Her cheeks will never sag
Her clothes will always fit.
Her eyes will never bag
Her smile will never quit.
She is the immortal plastic goddess
And I am doomed to dust.
But then, her moonlit eyes cannot see
Her high-heeled feet cannot run.
The sound of her singing will never be
And, alone, her movements cannot be done.
She'll constantly stand on tip-toes
By fireside she'll never comfortably sit.
Her perfect nose will never smell a rose
Nor could her graceful fingers touch it.
And where will she be, in 50 years,
When no one cares to dress and style her?
Can she cry plastic tears?
Would they ruin her mink coat's faux fur?
I think I would not trade one single summer's day
To in her glamorous body forever stay.