A mannequin with a long tenure
Does not need skin to keep a tan,
Or salad-safe options to keep it off;
Yet, a Woman; yet, a Man, begotten
In the image of fashion—crafted
In our minds eye, our standard bearer—
Waits an incontinent vigil with a wry
A woman with no love, or heart,
A man who is all legs and no brain
Still standing time as we gaze, and
Our moneybags sag with joy, and
The mirrors sparkle and burst with
Good luck, and easy hearts.
A simple call, “How do I look?”
“Like a crash test dummy,” says I.
“But wait! can’t you see how I feel?”
“Like a crash test dummy?” says me.
“It brings out my eyes, my very own soul”
“Like a crash test dummy,” says we.