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Fake MAG
you’re all fake, you wax people,
mannequins dressed for Paris,
doing everything, everything expected of you,
assuming roles, snatching positions,
lining up in flawless rows to battle,
in any way possible,
against the rest of us.
and you must, you must win.
but then comes the mind bomb,
the explosively unexpected U-turn
that occurs every now and then,
when you throw the yoke of your superiority
off your shoulders, forgotten almost completely,
as you ooze sugar, bleed sweet,
chatter friendly and crack inside jokes
like eggs, and you mix it all together and
serve it up.
and we all, we all devour it like cake.
hypnotized and mesmerized and
all the more smashed when like
that,
you snap back, rubber overstretched,
assuming roles, snatching positions,
and sticking us in the freezer
until needed for future use.
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Favorite Quote:
*beepbeep*
"Where to, Miss?"
"To the stars."