It's too late.
The Pharoah's here.
The other eligible debutantes prepared,
While I stood staring out the window at the sun.
I'd heard a story about his previous wife.
How she'd been exiled because
She wouldn't get up out of bed
In media nocte
To make his drunk ass a sandwich.

And so I didn't bother to put a curl in my hair,
Or to apply the stylish mascara.
Now the assistants have come
And ushered me away from my thoughts,
Put me here at the end of the line,
Rolled their eyes at my lack of ambition,
And left me to my fate.

But here he comes,
And something about me
Has captured his heart's attention.
He takes my left hand with his right
And lifts it up,
And pulls me from the lineup.
He must have a knack for picking
Persimmons off the apple tree.

-jenn