Stained

A stain on the pristine blouse,
A tinge of dismay stains the face,
Frivolous it was and it blew no fuse,
Fabulous she looked with frowns tangled like a love lace.

Her ash black hair crossed borders,
Covering those spots of stains,
Moaning the unavailability of folders,
Those yellowish spots of grease pains.

Perfection is beyond the blouse now,
For its impeccable white's been stained,
Brandishing that ever demure smile,
Though stained,white never seemed as heavenly.