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The Genius of Simplicity

Something was rotten in town, experts desperate for explanation.

They agreed to allow the surgeon to deconstruct me and determine how cute I could be disemboweled.

I feared his hypothesis, my lungs weren’t what they heaved, in the wild, eyebrows were mustaches, gray eyes, raw easels and anvils.

I confessed to being merely glue and mirrors.

Admitted allure was decoy, a giant syringe, a skillet of biscuits seconds from singe.

Mercy.

No need for alarm, they said as they strapped me to the cutting slate, true beauty withstands all scrutiny.

The surgeon demonstrated his brilliance by sectioning and scooping me in buckets, which proved the following:

* Fancy perfume : Can’t mask intestinal stench.
* Breasts on pikes : Not titillating.
* Lips alone : Simply fish bait.

Try to love her now, just try. (wide-palmed applause)

Commence the new ideology.

Entrails : Evidence : Inconceivable : There was never an Eve.