The young lady

You call her over nicely,
For some simple conversation,
Expecting for some small talk,
That is calm, polite and tasteful,
Subjects include the weather, 
Politics and the election,
She's sweet and poised and elegant
And appears to be perfection,
But if she really told you,
What she held behind those eyes,
What deviance she thought of,
In the recesses of her mind
She wouldn't seem so tasteful,
And she wouldn't seem so modest,
If the young lady that you spoke to,
Was well and truly honest.

Be special be unique,
But these ideals just seem so torn,
When every other class mate,
Wears the exact same uniform.
 
Natural, is beautiful,
The best habit you can take up,
But she's frequently called ugly,
Without all the hair and make up.

Be riveting, 
with every single line of conversation,
But she's learnt the same old text book,
As every other generation.

Now she doesn't seem so tasteful,
And she's sorry to be crude,
But if she likes sex then she's a slut,
And if she doesn't she's a prude.

Be a women worker,
Be powerful and strong,
But when she is she gets harassed,
And the chips just fall all wrong.

Love yourself, be who you are,
We'll be okay with that,
But just as she does love herself,
Some dickhead calls her fat.

You can be a modern woman,
Get the boyfriend to help pitch in,
But why is she the only one,
To ever help out in the kitchen.

And so this young lady,
Who you thought was such perfection,
Hides away her fury,
Behind her soft complexion,
She's, pretty, kind and timid,
But her misguided elegance,
Is just a way to hide,
The ugly face of your own negligence.