It's not her fault.
Life, amirite?
She's too old to be a cheerleader,
but she stands on the field,
smoking Marlboro Reds,
and screaming about
Limp Bizkit and calzones.
She's too young to be this unhappy,
but her lighter hooters help a little
and the fact that her title is Producer
assists in easing the doldrums
of a rustic motel gig.
She's too pretty to be upset,
but she is allowed to wallow
without comparison,
yet I am allowed to make jokes
that try to get her to smile.
It's not her fault;
it's mine.