Should’ve known better than to
Check with her mate whether
She’s decked out for all weather,
Whatever, checkmate. Pilates on a plate,
It’s a palaver but the activewear’s finally on:
Leggings, Asics, hair done in a bun
Standard attire so who’s she running from?
Or where’s she running to?
Not a clue, boo.
Keeps rubbing her eyes; no dove, no coo,
No clue why she cries tears dry as jasmine rice,
Or why she relies on building
Sleepy sand castles for eyelash dwelling lice.
Hides the bright lights, and
Exfoliates the bad dreams without cream,
Respirates a yawn,
I’m torn between attempting to ignore
Or submitting to my own inevitable yawn.
It’s incredible, the hacking yakking pinning us in
Pin the tail on the gossip,
She’s spilling sloppy truths
So now’s the time to stop it
Glottal-stop her epiglottis cos
She’s both sides of the conversation:
Little Miss Armrest-hog Ophelia
Opening cans of opinions
Cos she can’t imagine ever breaking
Through a Velux glass ceiling
When she’s as fresh faced as Rashford,
But can’t afford to be rash…
Yet she’s so opinionated and brash,
Patience meet your match
Fucking definition of a verbal sweat rash.