Sometimes We Confuse The Handsome Faces

Sometimes we confuse the handsome faces, With some regal hero's lithesome graces; We'd like to wreathe fine flowers all around them Only to find, they're poured from alien stone; Or cast-out granite, by hard heart well-hone. A prisoner of substances most elite; Of habits that we don't care to repeat. We'd thought their beauty rendered them divine, A pure, salient spirit, unreached by time; To find that perfect visage is corrupt, Is like finding someone's spit into our cup, Or wiped a perfect portrait in the Louvre With some substance from the body, rude- Almost as though god made a joke, most lewd.