Ladies in their primes

They are priceless
Just like an apricot, they're sweet...
With streamed eyes, just like the chinchilla's
That flaps with galore of glamour
I know their chieftain
So aesthetic as the autumn moon
They posses caffine smells like the roadside fleurdelis
That often keeps collar-job men close
Some are gallous, feelers of failure
Whilst some dream to rule as Queens
They've got the cosmos in their hands
The glory of a man rests in their hymen
God made them subtle
But the irony thereto,makes them weak.