Glittering prisons came,
and called your name;
your draped but naked frame,
the price of fame.

Your silhouette has sailed -
mad diets failed.
Your siren song has paled;
it lingers, veiled.

Your breasts, an empty boast -
cold as a ghost.
So no one now will toast
what sold you most.

Oh women, will you learn,
your curves will earn;
why should a maiden spurn
what makes men yearn?