Never met a girl who was pleased with her pictures,
Displeasure more at the lack of perfection then at her features.
Tell how should her, that beauty is a lovely journey,
And that numbers are better left in a lowly tourney.
Perfection is but only a number,
Whose quest will only make them numb-er.
If could never understand a feminine mind did Freud,
Them how could I even think of dispelling the void.
Humbled by the predicament, I paused to ponder,
Answer dawned on me from up and yonder.
To experience the fruit of compassion,
She has to drive away the cloud of comparison.
Signing off...
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