Beauty
His pen moved so swiftly, so fleetly,
lauding the elegance of her beauty, divine,
it gushed like the wind, with the greatest élan,
elated, mesmerised by the beauty, benign,
beholding the sight of the maker's virtuosity,
rather so, bewitched by the virtuous design,
with her eyes gorgeous as the ocean,
and the shimmering face, a piece of sunshine,
the pen flowed swiftly, to glorify the beaut,
the pen, overwhelmed, failing to opine...
But then the pen, averted its path,
for what motive did the pen resign ?
the filth of her nose, jutted its way out,
rubbed over carelessly, now her face malign,
the face so noisome, grime her face,
the pen so wise, took the chance to refine,
for a revelation he had, the canny pen,
What is this beauty, it must redefine,
so said the pen, in a bold heady tone,
What is this beauty, Oh, What do you call fine ?
Filth is all it is, bandaged by this skin,
What is this beauty, that you refer thine ?
For bones, tissue, filth, and stench along,
Is all that bases this beauteous design.