Do you see it all
through the blood and dirt,
past the purposely-put paint splatter upon your shirt?
I wonder sometimes,
as minutes waltz the time,
how you fashion that smile at your lip;

You have style,
young girl,
NOT class.

Your art is no Da Vinci,
your coffee isn't the sweetest of the bean,
yet you twist the tufts of your burgundy hair,
perfecting a European laugh.

You have style,
young girl,
and only that.

Do you see it all, though,
through the blood and the mud,
past the abstract moon
and parched December sun?
The concrete faces in the famous Last Supper,
the grainy skin of the sky throughout the humid summer?
The true contradiction,
strung between heaven and hell,
that no book could ever prove on your solid glass shelf?

You whet your tongue with an eye for knowledge,
yet you have no taste beyond your own right.
Your eye is bone-dry,
you fabricate nothing too wise;
You have style,
young girl,
you HAVE no class,
for you cannot see the world through rose-coloured glass.
 
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