This Lady in sequined red has the legs of a horse. She bites iron and bends it to her will. The way she is standing is much like that of a shot putter who just put their shot. Don’t tell her I said this, but I think she is sexy.
That Lady is clearly a stage prop. A chilly blue gowned piece of eye candy. Her face approaches a sneeze, yet she looks on with indifference. Don’t tell her I said this, but sneezes can sometimes be fatal.
This Lady works the pedal that pumps the life water out into the field. She has the biggest collection of sticks I have ever seen. Her hat protects her bored expression from the sun. Don’t tell her I said this, but I think her hat is mint.
That Lady departs in a helicopter bound for Iceland. She is seated next to a low rent Santa Claus imposter. Her immense smile indicates she is not at all nervous of Santa’s horrible fake beard. Don’t tell her I said this, but her skirt clashes with her scarf and Santa Claus is not real.
This Lady is surrounded by hundreds who sun on a beach, yet she cannot help but feel a solitary confinement in this sea of souls. Looking to the sky she knows that sunrays do not discriminate, excepting vampires. Don’t tell her I said this, but I know how she feels.
That Lady uses her beautiful face to earn her living and vanity slowly takes over her identity. One day her beauty will fade and she will cry at the loss of herself that she became so attached to. Don’t tell her I said this, but all things must pass, even ourselves.
This guy writes about the ladies he sees in a magazine, while the cat desperately struggles to conquer his lap. The scent of vanilla wafts to and fro as he ponders and yawns in his second favorite chair. Don’t tell him I said this, but this was a perfect moment.
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