An Immaculate Conception

She is cut glass,
This munchkin
Dressed like a forty year madam,
I see her running bazaars.
She speaks with a sharpness
That severs her subject.
This girl has a look
That could cut you from miles.
Unruffled by feelings
Trained, parrot fashioned,
To spout.
Cold and emotionless,
Deals in veneers
Her words drip a smugness
She shouldn't have learnt yet.
Talking on subjects
She cannot perceive,
Remote as an island
She'd hardly believe
That such things went on
(They don't in her circles)

As I watch her from my corner,
I am overwhelmed
By the desire to smother her
On behalf of every girl
Carrying a guilt
This righteous one
Could never begin to conceive.