She possessed the face of the most enchanting women,
Her voice, a melodious symphony that outshone trumpets,
A smile that could outshine even the brightest stars,
Her complexion, a flawless canvas, a portrait of perfection.
Her figure was a masterpiece, sharp and sculpted, reminiscent of fanta bamboocha, women in their prime.
Her beauty had the power to stop the rotation of the Earth itself.
She was a vision of such stunning allure,
A beauty that could make anyone question their own existence in the image of God,
For her beauty was nothing short of divine,
Yet, beneath the surface, there was something amiss,
People who delved into her world found nothing but her physical charm,
No intellect to engage with, no wisdom to impart,
They criticized her hygiene, lamented about her perfectly-manicured yet impractical nails,
Her house in perpetual disarray, with food rubbing shoulders with dirty socks.
She was a sight to behold, a temptation impossible to resist,
But being with her, they found, was a discomforting ordeal,
They came, they saw, and they added to her list, her body count,
She must have suffered in silence,
Why didn’t they simply tell her?
Perhaps, she might have changed her ways,
For we all know that at that stage, there was little hope for her mind to evolve.
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