THE FASHION & LIFESTYLE MAGAZINE FOR CITY WOMEN AND MEN

Rant
’14

Written by admin, 3 years ago, 0 Comments

Don’t loiter. Don’t linger. Don’t greet. Just be Ginger.
Let me give you the low down on how things are run in this town.
Frank is harsh, Harry is balding, and Sapphire is anything but stunning.
The bold may be beautiful, but money talks and the words are steep.
What the hell, I’ll throw you a bone! Be a good girl, and chew on it a while.
In the meantime, I’ll let loose my lips and sink your ships with my jawbreaker style.
Yes jawbreaker, not jaw dropper—now close your mouth, because you’re drooling and these shoes are Versace.
I eat pussy first thing in the morning and wash down coffee with cocaine.
My three addictions make for a perfectly balanced breakfast for the corrupt and insane.
In that order, of course, but darling, don’t be coarse.
Soft and smooth are the only adjectives that suit you.
You adore my suit? No? Then forget it we’re through.
Who needs you!
I certainly don’t. I’m fabulous and fierce.
Frivolous with my arrows, I pierce the nearest target.
You there, with the striped pants and the flattened hair.
You must have rolled out of the wrong bed this morning,
Somewhere the fences are metal, and the corner store is bulletproof.
Am I mistaken, where’s your stoop?
Your mirror must be broken,
Because I’m quite sure if was made of glass you’d see that your ass doesn’t belong here.
It’s too fat for those breeches, and too dark for my liking.
See it clashes with the white wallpaper, and all the card stock we’re stocking.
I’m a size 2, the stores I shop in don’t carry your size or cater to poor.
How did I know? Dearest, it’s written all over your face, imprinted in your embrace.
The weak and pathetic do not shake hands with the strong and prophetic.
Your hands are rough; they must toil with the stress and labors of the day to day.
My hands are dirty but my bank account is clean.
Chocolate isn’t the only thing deliciously sweet in the Alps.
I grow tired. You bore me. Here’s a quarter, monkey, perform for me.
Sing. No, my ears are bleeding.
Tap. Stop, I can’t follow the clumsiness of your feet.
What are you good for? Simply a wallflower to be hung and ignored?
Dance, monkey, dance. This is your last chance.
So get into the game or out of my way.
Are you a weed or a rose? Choose carefully from those.
A weed is wild, untamed. A rose is an assassin up in flames.
The petals are peculiar, its scent is familiar, yet the thorns are what you remember each time you tempt to pluck it from its litter.
Thrust it in a bouquet, and be a maestro, make it play.
Then watch it wilt and wither, and fade away.

By Sophia Fox-Sowell