She’s nipsy-nipsy, oh so tipsy,
Bar shift over overly early,
Po-faced, no Dipsy.
Tinky-Winking like La La Land
But no tips on the bar where the jar-jar stands.
Check out that stance, hot pants sentry,
Sent to guard train entries with
Knee high black socks and the 21st century.
Wonder if she sees me seeing her,
The phone in her hand might as well say
‘Do not disturb’.
Hot blood vessels snake
Up exposed thighs, from the toe to
The heel and then up to the eyes,
Exposing each capable capillary
Lifeforce artillery, papercut distillery,
Silently standing so still it’s verging on inverse versatility
Some static mannequin-type anonymity.
Come on a minutey, for all intents and purposes
She’s intensely focussed on the proclivity of
Low hanging fruit, the pockets that sag like there’s nothing to lose. If only she knew.
Cos short shorts lead to all sorts of
Bertie basset thoughts and liquorice storms.
But of course you can’t force meteorological remorse
Onto the innocence of youth. I mean she’s
Looking mean and meaning business in
A green bomber jacket the colour of a
Golden Virginia tobacco packet.
It’s fucking one degree above zero and
she needs to sort it out, pack it in,
Showing way too much skin…
Now that’s not misogyny, it’s just
A legitimate citizens concern that
When she leaves, she might actually freeze