Flick through the flimsy, coloured pages,

A perfection-figure for all ages,

Some stereotype we must all admire,

Burning in our own self-centred fire,

Dye, trim, cut, paint,

Starve, emaciated until we faint,

Buy a magazine to make us feel good,

And help us to look like what we should,

'Cause we can't go against the grain,

The mere thought makes us flinch in pain,

We will work to be a clone,

We will never truly be our own.

The End

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