“A man's face is his autobiography.
A woman's face is her work of fiction.”

                                    ― Oscar Wilde

Oh, what may a woman within her hide
that entices the heart of man to folly?
And makes his poor soul most melancholy
like walking with the devil side by side.

Comely in body but crooked in mind
virtue is overshadowed by some vice,
Beguiling, she has power to entice
a sly smile on her face whilst eyes unkind.

With face and bosom she is best-endowed
to mar the mind and make him weep for woe—
One wouldn't wish such on his fiercest foe—
with every craft and trickery allowed.

Her disdain, her deceit, her taunt, her scorn
day by day and while yet I draw my breath
lead me down a bleak alley as still as death,
Sitting forlorn in a corner my fate I bemourn. 

If I tell you it won’t be completely useless…
Her lips, her eyes, her hair they hypnotize
they will enchant you, they will mesmerize,
It would lead to things severely reckless.



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