Curls are brass like a trumpet,
you eye me with the snare of your iris,
I watch as Coral roars with the twenties,
she runs her fingers on an ivory and ebony pattern,
Silver clippers trim her hair,
she wears it short
like the other girls at the speakeasies.
All your daughters want to be like Coral,
they inhale the judgement you let out
And crave her laid-back demeanor.