Has any one supposed it lucky to be born?
Beautiful blue eyes, rosy pink cheeks, plump kissable red lips. A dignified black neck, strong green brow.
I hasten to inform him or her it is just as lucky to die, and I know it. I pass death with the dying and birth with the new-wash’d babe, and am not contain’d between my hat and boots, And peruse manifold objects, no two alike and every one good,A black ear. A yellow Adams-apple. I am beautiful. Makeup artist to the stars.
The earth good and the stars good, and their adjuncts all good.I am not an earth nor an adjunct of an earth, I am the mate and companion of people, all just as immortal and fathomless as myself,
Dripping paint. War paint. The mask of the rainbow death. Lipstick on my teeth and eyeshadow on my eyeball.
(They do not know how immortal, but I know.) Every kind for itself and its own, for me mine male and female, For me those that have been boys and that love women,Melting and mushy. Mystical and marvelous. I took this picture myself.
For me the man that is proud and feels how it stings to be slighted, For me the sweet-heart and the old maid, for me mothers and the mothers of mothers,I look too beautiful to have friends.
For me lips that have smiled, eyes that have shed tears,For me children and the begetters of children.
Undrape! you are not guilty to me, nor stale nor discarded,
Anyway who needs friends when you have millions of fans.
I see through the broadcloth and gingham whether or no,They will admire my painted black hairline.
And am around, tenacious, acquisitive, tireless, and cannot be shaken away.Super Sexy.