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The way she moves, magnificently strutting with a purposeNo lazy strides in red bottomsThe way she sits her ample behindas if posing for the Vogue coverThe way her darting tongue swirls from her bright cherry lipsOn her straw sipping on her Bloody MaryThe way her aromatic aura wants for attentionHaving doused herself in Femme Fatale, her signature lavender fragranceThe way she crosses her curvy legs and her skirt rides up her thighs to reveal grazed kneesThighs so thick everybody's uncomfortableThe way the summer breeze caresses her gleaming brown skinShe sits by the pier and pets her fluffy chihuahua with her painted stiletto nailsHer back is worn out, all in a day's work thoughStill, her whisky raspy laughter punctuates the laden ocean shoreShe removes her Dior sunglasses to reveal the most enchanting pair of eyesBewitching windows that tell of ensnared souls unwilling to escape the abyssThe way she gazes into the horizon with a grin and a hooded winkAnd sighs with contentmentThat she finessed the gullible and the cynics alikeHer happiness has been guaranteedThis queen's chaff is worth more than other women's (s)corn