He stares and says, ‘Hi, how pretty you are‘
in an accent that sounds too sickly and French,
and as always, she’ll smile under a jaw that will too tight clench,
you see, he doesn’t see her nor her laugh as she spins
but limbs he might like or the sheerness of her shirt,
and looks in a way he thinks makes him a flirt.
And as always, she will stop and wait for him to walk away
because charming he is not, nor handsome, nor kind,
but a too thin, too confident, Parisian pervert.