Oh,
bougie bib.
I saw you around the neck,
perfect looseness to strangle,
of a twenty-something-year-old
who looked like she ate nothing
but leafy greens
and the pompous pride of being
politically correct.
The assumed path is usually wrong.
If a condiment sat on you,
your value might increase
depending on your wearer:
the mind flip-flops
like an experimenting teenager.
Your thread,
usefulness to society,
unravels.
A shawl no longer.
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