Revised sonnet #230
If people find out finally Im fake
Ill have to humbly nod and quit their space
Ill weep away the solitary ache
In private quarters grieve at my own pace
The rounded rhetoric and stilted grace
The puffed up hair in silver combs and clips
The tartan blouse and skirt of frill and lace
The blushered cheeks and cherry painted lips
Then pantyhose just laddered knees to hips
Embarrass back end view I cant avoid
Ive scuffed the soles of shoes to stifle slips
I feel Ill freak a peep too paranoid
They stand too close to me I feel them breathe
In etiquette I qualify their seethe
Chorus breathe puste respirar
