Ten damn stops until the end of the line,
The grape on the vine where X marks the spot.
Try and spot the lesser-spotted leopard skin blouse:
Is she mutton dressed as lamb or an
Overdressed, jam distressed dormouse?
Playing house inside tannin stained teapots,
When it’s only 5 o’clock and she’s already
Dressing madder than a hatter whose lost the plot
Too late to change her top
Too late to change her spots or her stripes,
You’re damn right, marching overripe
Hair into a tortoiseshell brooch.
Slowing her approach to make an impression
Impressing in a cotton pelt as sheer as Shere Khan’s direction
Straight to the top and don’t ever stop
Except to stop the rot.
Keep tutting with your glottal stop
Tainted posh, lips painted rot.
That’s German for red, which is the colour of
The blood that she coughs.
I’ve seen the hanky, diagnosed it, now thank me.
This ain’t no hanky panky,
I want some of that cash you got in the banky,
Legs short not lanky, saggy scarf hanging,
Tassels hassled by the carriage breeze
Banking the cliff of her hips,
Suede ankle boots will never slip
Just like ships that’ll never sink,
Who else thinks that logo clad tote bags
Are totally totemic baggage, iconoclastic
And plastic. Masticating the muscles
Of her shoulder, forever getting older,
Depend on that like the weather getting colder,
But unwanted like a cold caller getting bolder.
Should’ve told her, that the signal from the iPhone in her hand
Resonates on a dangerous bandwidth,
But it’s what she listens to the band with,
Plugged into an iPhone I.V., a shrinking violet
Slowly hidden beneath apple’s poison ivy.