MORPHING:

O.M.G. - The strain of it all, it´s all such a terrible old stress,

Trying to fit into that beautiful, tight & neat, little black dress,

The one with the thin straps that gets lost in the shoulder fat,

Between those folds, the mounds & those little bits that flap.

Sprouting hairs escaping from rampant brows, nose, ears & chin,

Those red & purple veins that run from hip, thigh & knobbly shin,

Those flippy-flappy back-boobs & no, I don’t mean little perky tits,

But appendages, sticking out between all the wrong uninvited bits.

The bunions, wrinkles, the double-chins, the jowls & dimpled belly,

Running amok like dripping incontinence & very wobbly melting jelly,

Teeth that fall out, or ones that stay in, all ochre, browned & stained,

Fat bulging fingers & toes, sorely arthritic, knuckled & redly inflamed.

Old sixty-somethings, sporting harem pants, trout-pouts & silicone tits,

Waddling so fatly, as if in nappies not changed & still so full of the shits,

Faces not moving, extensions, veneers, eyebrows permanently drawn in,

It´s all so uncomfortably unaccommodating & all held together with a pin.

We may weep & sob, sadly bleat & wail, but ladies, not all is totally lost,

We have allies out there girls, if you search & scratch under all the dross,

We have collagen & injections of poisonous Botox to stuff & fill us all out,

We lift, we stretch, fill in, fill out & we can even achieve a fishy trout pout.

And then came lycra, for the young & the old & surely a girl´s best friend,

Encased & en-sausaged, now we can all strut, pose & we can now pretend,

That we look like all those skinny models gliding along that Paris cat- walk,

Just as long as we don´t dare breathe, don´t smile, frown & even less, talk.

When I was a kid, my mummy just used Ponds cold cream, powder & rouge,

Floral crimplene, nylon & rayon, a little cardie & a very sensible pair of shoes,

A curler or two in the front of her head, just to preserve her hair´s gentle wave,

Diets were never mentioned & the curves were what all men wanted & craved.

So strutting out & about in extensions, lycra, false eyelashes & my very red lippy,

Telling my arthritic, high-heeled bunions to move it, get going & please be nippy,

But when I get back home & shake it all off, like a deflated airbag I´ll happily be,

And I´ll let it all hang out, to hell with the world & I shall be happy just being me.