She sells blow-up dolls Lava-lamps and fringed fuschia pillows
Glass reindeer, optic art, fuzzy balloons
She laughs a red laugh
And smiles a white smile
At a gypsy cart in the middle
Of the big-city mall
Like a rock in a river
The crowd swirls around her
An ever-changing pallet
That paints her each day
Hair, blonde as Marigolds, flossed up in a cone
White skin, breasts mounded (plastic, you know)
Perfume wafting, deep amber musk
Tight skirt, spiked heels
Bangles gold at her wrists
And long pink legs
Crossed, dangling and lean
She knows where it's at
She's seen all the ads
She wants to get that lip thing
That makes you look pouty
Bombarded daily
With the media message
She has become
Their ultimate pitch
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