I'm staring at a poster in a room,

Of a pretty pixel person

And with jealously I'm consumed.

She's got crystal blue eyes 

And an air of confidence about her.

Her soul seems to glow a wealthy orange liqueur.

This pretty person is made of liquid gold

But as I stare closer

The truth unfolds. 

She's made of tiny pixels

That aren't quite right;

They're faked and edited and suddenly I've lost all spite.

For she's a pretty pixel person,

With pixels in her hair.

She's the advertisement of a woman.

She's not really there.