The vulgar yellow of the peddler’s balloon
Appeals more to her,
Than the intoxicating luster of pure gold.
The tuneless melody from her mother’s lips
Lulls her to blissful sleep
Than the orchestrated music of the mechanical recorder.
Pink cotton candy off the shelf of the sweetmeat seller
Elates her innocent taste buds
Than the immaculate buffet of the sophisticated kitchens.
O God, can’t you give to me,
Her innocent mind, her virgin thoughts,
To help me wade through this sludge of life?
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