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.
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