ROTTING VANITY

Your hair may be dripping vanity now
From another ego shower,
But soon the spider of old age
Will whisper your true colors in your ear.
Your rose-tinted glasses will shatter,
Your milky legs will crack,
Your face will form accordion folds,
And your hair will turn to brittle hay
With the color of rotten eggs.
It’s unfortunate, though,
That you’re too busy worshipping your own reflection
To peel yourself from the mirror’s grasp
And notice these changing winds of age.

We’ve only been dating for two months now,
But it drives me insane when you ask,
In a voice as soothing as shattered glass,
“Does this skirt make my hips look too fat?”
If only I could gather the strength
To scream the truth:
“You’d look better with your mouth shut.”
But since I’m the bigger of the two,
I take my own advice
And not say a word.

When death arrives at your feet,
You’ll get a final coffin curtain call.
People will gawk at your embalmed beauty,
Shower you with eulogies,
And when you’re planted in the dirt like a human seed,
You will rot. You will decompose.
And all your vanity won’t mean shit;
You’ll just turn into it,
Though your fertilizer flesh might grow a tree
Covered with fruit to feed the animals.
But at least then your skin will have served a purpose,
Finally.

So smear on the cover-up, pile on the eyeliner,
Bathe in gallons of Maybelline.
Enjoy your phony centerfold looks
While your skin can breathe.
And if you’re offended by this kiss-off,
Just wait ‘till the spider erodes your face off.