She was outre; she was just perfect that way.
No longer a stillborn, never a glamerous stray.
In the arms of a Nordic princess, a mannequin named Zero.
Who had been through a dozen-he was her latest ubiquitous hero.
You ask of her reason, yet it still remains ulterior.
In comparison to her previous, it seems so inferior.
From the perspective of a genius, she owed us nothing.
And from those glaring pebbles it was a waste of a coffin.