You’re fair and pale, a lady of Monroe:
With your blonde, angelic hair.
Are you the feminine friend or foe?
Or just a child posed upon a chair?
Your smile, like fireworks blown.
Blown is the hopeless romantic’s heart
When they see your rouged, red lips: Alone.
Alone, like you have been from the start.

Seen as American in your style,
Similar to a symbol – The eagle.
But just a vulnerable, immature child.
And to all your fame; feeble.
Your ambitions like the Earth’s core,
Dissipate as they meet the sea’s shore.

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