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I can see them in the corner laughing,
their eyes filled with sumptuous mischief managed,
Champagne, chocolate, three necklines plunging,
talking about an event so blessed.
Water cascades over delicate buds,
the scent of jasmine coils into lace,
their hands wet with little alcohol suds,
on falls, laughing until pink in the face.
"I like your pearls," on says to another.
"Merci," she says, wiping cream from her nose.
The third hiccups at her.
"Roses, she giggles, "That's the scent I chose."
The butler enters, haste is his warning,
"Ladies, the revolution is coming."