I am not sure about these neon lips. Poor girl!
She must be wearing ground-up bugs an inch too thick.
The clouds are white after three days of rain,
Higher than smoke, allowing men outside to think.
But neon lips? Intelligence does muse aghast,
Someone’s got bug brains on her lips to drink,
Nor would I drink those lips if I became a man,
Surmising nicer ones to be another shade of pink.
Why not a neon nose or eyes or head, mi girl,
Spiral as a lollypop upon a skating rink,
That bees don’t come to suck the flower one by one,
Or frogs jump through the crevice with a plink?
I’ve never seen a man with neon lips. Have you?
They’d make him look as soft as a tiddly-wink,
Morphosing what was rugged to look bound and tame,
Like a meowing cat surmising at the silver sink.
God bless them, though, O neon lips of glamor gloss,
If they come to pray and not kiss sex for mink.