Walking down the Street

I walked and I treid to sell it.

I walked like I was on the runway, hearing "She's a brickhouse."

Still I felt cheap.

Cheap like a used car salesmen tring to sell you a 1966 Ford Mustang with a new paint job. But knowing the interior is all rotted out.

I walked pasted vendors selling cheap tie dyed T-shirts with "Hottie" written on the front.

If I wore that would I be anymore conviencing?

I tried to sell sexy as if I were a Tommy Hilfer commercial, selling you those tight plaid pants that everyone so desperatly needs.

I tried to sell beauty as if it came in a bottle and I was the spokes person.

My walk couldn't even fool the drunken old army vet that sat infront of the tractors.

I tried to sell it because I've never heard a guy say, "Wow, she's got nice brains."

And maybe I should just stick to selling shoes because nobody likes a cheezy salesmen selling you damaged goods.