Mere a vagary to advertent,
Profane is what they call her,
Subtle perpetual enchantments,
being taken for granted and chunked.
She rues down in guilt,
As those speculations cut her through,
Though fallible in fact,
But her amour is incorrigible.
Vaguely dramatized in her lousy head,
Her crappy immaculate dreamy hamlets,
But she can never be the girl next door,
As she isn’t sheer enough to imbibe in thou ecstasy.
Why not emancipate her soul from these
Wrecked by the abandoned sadness born
out of grief,
Evacuate her structure of bones and meat,
And phenge her into the state of redemption.