When pretty meant a pleasant smile,
eyes could say forbidden things if love was listening,
in the back seat on a four-door falcon cruise
it was all that could be asked for, for a while.
This ritual these days is locked away, out of sight
and increasingly, all too uncommonly repeated.
Fear seems to be increasing in the evening more now
as that pretty woman still conceals from us her face;
kept from our eyes by a spiderweb of lace.
There has been another death at honesty house tonight,
Betrayal dug the grave while Trust retreated.