She got Bette Davis eyes that flicker like neon in the rain,
cutting through smoke and cheap champagne.
Midnight lashes cast dagger-shade lies,
promising heaven while she privatizes the skies.
One scarlet smile, the room detonates slow;
boys turn to satellites, girls to shadow.
She keeps her heart in a velvet lockbox,
throws the key to the moon—never talks.
When the spotlight bleeds, she just sways,
leaving stardust and subpoenas in her suede.