Atop his steed sat Luxury,
A cunning, sharp cut type,
Painted lips formed painted smile,
His stockings smooth and white.
The silk brocade and silver shone,
A richness rarely seen,
While Poverty, crouched below him,
Could hardly be called "clean".
She held his reigns, but stood askance,
A fear from deep within,
To get to close, or mar his dress,
To her would be a sin.
Said Luxury to Poverty:
"My dear, you look a fright!
With just a bit of touching up,
You surely could be right."
"Aye, but sir," quipped Poverty,
"Perhaps I could be right,
But in the day you'd yearn for me
To come and stay the night."
"And in the morn," continued she,
"You'd find a frightful fact,
For though asleep, we be the same,
In living, we must act.
Facade set up, and well maintained,
Could not support my cause,
Your friends would see with just a glance,
And surely they'd give pause."
The game then up, upon the street,
You'd find me in a flash,
And all the urchins 'round the town,
Could come to have a laugh.
So sleep in peace and worry not,
Preserve integrity,
But keep it known as I have shown,
Your eloquence is wasted on me."
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What do you think?
thanks guys
-tangerine.
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