O! Mistress of Lord’s irony
Could more be sweet, deceit, than you?
So sold out blokes, to your blarney
Who buy you, at your face value!
Of the oldest job, and the newest fad
It’s all you, the seed of, original sin
The façade, you wear, ain’t ironclad
Beyond which, you’re, just dead skin!
How many men, in your vanity box
Do sate your pride, to insanity
Why beauty, be your paradox
And fait accompli, your profanity!
How Troys were lost, to dust, for her
Runs timelessly, her scandal-sheet
Could starker be, any metaphor
A Woman’s Creed, Is A Man’s Defeat!
© 2017 Vikas Chandra