Ugly, like the skin that sluffs off the sin, 

Face speaking to a bit of inbreeding, 

And the cross that says there’s something off here 

Swinging from a suspect neck. 

Jock, two-year old perpetual, money. 

But that ugly matches her insides 

The rotted conceptions of vanity,

And it’s familiar, known, accepted by them. 

Ugly recognizes ugly and it’s as good as any other match, 

Since none of it’s real anyway, 

Forced into being like a phony smile.