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She is a catsuit,

A catsuit that is thought to be

Too vulgar,

Too Extravagant,

Too food

For hungry eyes

And mouths

Of the judges,

Of spectators in fedora hats and scarfs,

Drinking Champaign

during tennis matches,

The tennis shows

That are conducted by Her

So nobly,

So divinely,

So Wagnarianly.

World’s tennis number one

Turns into the Black Swan

Swimming in a white tutu

Over the bloody orange gravel

Of Rolland Garros,

Gliding over the imperial

“La Coste” décor and faces.

She is a cat,

She tears the stage curtains,

Jumps into the white void

Of Chanel dresses and costumes,

A black cat collects Grand Slam awards,

A bad omen that

Crosses consistently the path

of masons and lions.