Slender Joan was very slim;
she spent her spare time down the gym.
She wriggled here and strutted there,
and tossed about her glossy hair.
the sort of woman, women hate.
The men, they gawped and gaped and sighed.
“It’s Joanie! Over here!” they cried.
Who cares what’s hidden underneath?
The figure-hugging latest craze
had men admiring in a daze.
into the clothes designed for teens.
Deep wrinkles ploughed across her face;
the make-up pooled in thick disgrace.
men hid when Joanie tripped along.
Her hair was dull and roots were grey.
‘Oh Joan,’ they sneered. ‘You’ve had your day.’
as Joan propped up the well-worn bar.
She tried to pout and make a pass
but age was catching up too fast.
not one of them was to be found.
So Joan’s alone, in quite a state,
still hoping to attract a mate.
in glamour that befits their time,
they pity Joan, who thinks they’re drab
and wouldn’t swap the life they have.
you’ll find me here at ninety still.
No knitting, cat, nor crossword sham
can satisfy the Joan I am.”
I’m happy as I am this way.
I’ve lived my live to fullest wealth,
whilst you stagnate upon your shelf.”
with mini skirt of red and gold.
She doesn’t care. She thinks she’s best:
still waiting for her next conquest.
© Nicky Clifford, 2016