It lay out on her shoulder,
Risen up to her four foot eight,
Haughtily she shook off from his hold,
And you could see a tear....
And i from Pandora through Pankhurst have seen,
It never turns gray lest its intent is a fall,
But beauty has slain,
Liberty and happiness at cost.
And she had it all.
Held by her ancestral horbs,
The hairy hunker on the left,
Skating his wisdom down her lobe,
The caveman on the right,
Blubbering nothing that was right,
And of she went to their merry,
A distraught beauty,
In search of happiness,
But it never lies before the sun,
But after
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