Like a painted madam clutching trickling sand

So does your beauty’s desperation show—

That grimaced gargoyle of a face once grand,

Ravaged by club smoke and cheap Bordeaux.

Cosmetic powders now deep lines disguise

What surgeons’ steel could never quite defeat;

Bleak battle scars of age that still defy,

The years now masked in macquillage complete.

What truth still lies in that mendacious mirror

Where dreams of glories past lay crazed by time;

An upraised brow fair makes that sculpture leer

Piteously mocking your now out worn prime.

What of those many swains your mien did rule…

Vain Queen of Hearts, now but a jester’s fool.