wouldn’t that swinging hipster social butterfly girl
riding party after party night after night
be so much more suited to
the bald head
of that middle-aged square wearing glasses over there?

And that elegant upper east side dame,
flaunting her wealth,
attaining fame
amongst her gossiping posh posse of
socialites in twin pearl-necklaces,
she would look just marvelous in
the torn, worn
dirty, eaten, stringy hair
of the homeless lady
trying to catch sleep in the corner seat.