Success they say is a yardstick
Or perhaps even a scale
To measure your social standing
She is like the toothpaste
That slowly comes out of a tube
Rubbing against teeth, sculpting
Brilliant smiles – and seemingly
A smile is the truce, the armistice
Between two strangers
When that enamel-rich success crescent
Puts a spell of irreristable charm
Making strangers conjure instant-smiles
And success too is a story-teller
When anecdotes make miracles
Out of paperback books
Storming to the helm of best-seller lists
And that they say that is an autobiography
That moonlights as an inspirational guide
And in spite of her many personalities
Success is the lipstick, rouge and mascara
One puts on, to make oneself
A promiscuous whore
Of high society.


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