A Toast To The Lovely Lady

She dreams of everythign under the sun but finds no time to tan.  Her life is a cataclysm of voided checks that she always fails to cash.  Everything about it is backwards, and upside right, and no one cares to tell her otherwise.  She feels lost and insecure, unloved and unwanted.   There's a point of no return printed on her sales reciept and a do not resistate form on the inside tag of her least favorite purple shirt.   Her mind wanders and she makes up fickle promises of funk, and everyone scratches their ass and picks their ears to make sure the stench of insecurity isn't up on them.  Here's a toast to her the messed up beauty in the world wind of bitch philosophies.  A good hearted heartbreaker that you can't get out of your head.  Here's to the girl who doesn't understand but understand everything else.   A fundemental in a bridge of ecstacy that burns red hot on a frosty new years day.  The goal setter who eats a tub of ice cream just to prove she can prove nothing.   Her gorgeous eyes are searching for clues in a Scooby-Doo style re-run that wants to run back to its own mundane day.  And when she speaks to me I hear her screaming out, she wants in, but won't back down from her desire to achieve a place in royalty.  Here's to you miss lovely contemplater, staring into bathroom mirrors so long you've forgotten if you've washed your hands.  You try to study your face so long to see if you can peer into your mind from the outside of your body through the skin and the bone and the water that floats around your brain just to hope its staying afloat.  A toast to your marvelous lips that say such sweet nothings to no one in particular and everyone of no consequence.  If i could place one kiss there upon you wouldn't swoon for me, but i'd swoon for you, and in my swooning a wooing could happen but probably not and maybe for the best.  Your too good for everyone and thus too good for me.  A devil wouldn't mind a role in the hay to keep you still from becoming a saint.  People often fall in lust with her just as often as love, and they forge them together, and nature that horrid bitch just won't relinquish its grasp, and no matter how good the sin may feel, you won't give in so soon.  She smells the fire, oh marvelous, beauty of magnificent conviction, chained up falsely for truthful lies in ballads of lullaby.  Oh she knows its all so, yet remains a vision behind thick glass translucent, detectable but a fogged version of your greatest joy.  Here's the toast that all men give, the ones at least who have a soul, to the women whose bitch side resides in a trash heap, and i'm just saying I appreciate you.