SOPHIA LOREN EYES:

Oh boy, those sixties, the psychedelic, groovy, swinging & free,

 Afro hair & Mary Quant´s mini-skirts way high above the knee,

Of Twiggy, Beatles, Jean Shrimpton & those fab Rolling Stones,

Making love-not war & flowers adorning our hair & skinny bones.

Those long gone times, when I was young & told I was so pretty,

When young lassies burned rules & bras & let loose nubile titties,

Carnaby Street & King´s Road, love, flower-power & colours wild,

When the music ruled & wooed every wanton wild & hippie child.

But then, there was only one thing I wanted, desired & really needed,

For me not the bare feet, nor unruly locks flowered, braided & beaded,

I did not want to be Lulu or Janis Joplin, nor Lucy in her diamond skies,

All I´d ever dreamed of & wanted, were smouldering Sophia Loren eyes.

I would sit for hours, with pencils, shadows, paints & pitch-black kohl,

In front of my critical mirror & isolated in my room, my little fish bowl,

Drawing with shaking hand, line upon line & black upon ancient brown,

Down at the corners & up on the lids, my smile stealing away the frown.

 Hour after tiring hour, perfecting the look of Sophia Loren, the divine,

Until the day, Eureka, I got it right & Loren´s eyes at last became mine,

My eyes spoke Italian better than Sophia, after practice & so much paint,

 I was sure, that by the Vatican´s Pope, I´d be deemed an appropriate Saint.

Now I am old & short of sight & it´s a rheumy, red-eyed old woman I see,

But in my mirror, it is Sophia Loren looking back at my youthful memories,

And as the music of those halcyon days, fades in my old head & slowly dies,

I smile at the thought, that once I´d achieved those sultry Sophia Loren eyes.