Margarite makes us all discrete,
with only a sly slight glance.
Full of gilded and golden splinters,
in love with nothing but half a chance.
A child of a new Bohemia,
a sculptress deep in diminished disguise.
Catch her if you can see or follow,
her hands hold the world in beautiful demise.
Hair changes color at the whim of a click,
a life without detail, worry or care.
A lioness in search of a lion to lick,
caring Ms. Moffly loves only by dare.
dead beat poet 