Mere a vagary to advertent,
Profane is what they call her,
Subtle perpetual enchantments,
being taken for granted and chuked.
She rues down in guilt,
As those speculations cut her through,
Though fallible in fact,
But her amour is incorrigible.
Vaguely dramatised 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 ecstacy.
Why not emanicipate her soul from these
Wrecked by the abandoned sadness born
out of guief,
Evacuate her structure of bones and meat,
And phenge her into the state of redemption.