Mirror, Mirror

The vanity mirror
Thought of perfection,
And knew that he had it,
Upon some reflection.

He was clean and quite smooth,
Without scratch or dent,
Much better, by far,
Than a sack of cement.

Better than people,
All bumpy and rough,
And covered in hair
And more ugly stuff.

Much better, in fact,
Than windows en masse;
Transparent and stupid,
Real panes in the glass.

He knew his conceit
Was not merely whim;
Not a person walked by
Without gazing at him.

His only regret
As he sat on his shelf,
Was that he could never
Just look at himself.

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