Dear Pink Ladies of America's High School,

How do you retain the form of a stem on a thorn-filled rose?
Hair spray and Suave go only so far,
So why is it that my own locks take a tumble down the stairs,
And land so deficient on my head?

I could skate on your faces,
Partially out of jealousy and loathing,
But mostly because of the freshly shaven ice from your soul,
That you have laid so smoothly upon your face,
Much like a princess's bed of silk,
Where your
“Beautiful blue eyes,”
“Cute button nose”
And
“Perfect lips”
Seem to sit.

The skin you have stretched over your bones,
Has been made by the Gods of
Extra-Small,
Labeled with a bird or moose.

There may not be crowns on your heads,
Though your loyal servants bow at your precious feet,
Obeying your every command.

One day, you will step down from your hierarchy,
And leave the peasants to live their normal lives and be free,
Not having to live under your overpowering rule.

Sincerely,
The Back-Up Dancers