Miss Brittany Noble is favored to win
on the merit of dimples, though she's nervous,
for another tiny doll has put quite the spin
on a speech about community service.
The angel in the corner is Amber West,
ethereal in a cloud of face powder.
Though many thought her tap-dance was best,
there were those who tapped their toes louder.
Some little ladies are bumping around
vision obscured by clumps of mascara.
Still others look for Mom, their tights falling down,
their minds filed with dreams of tiaras.
Twenty-five little girls, sashes draping their chests,
Ribbons and curls in their well-sprayed hair.
Twenty-five little girls, each knowing she's best,
and the stench of pink is everywhere.
This poem first appeared in Free Lunch: A Poetry Miscellany,
Copyright 1998 by the Free Lunch Arts Alliance.