And me look like a bag lady?
You walk in the room, they’re impressed
I appear like an unmade bed.
Your hair immaculate, your looks well blessed
My eyes are puffy like I might have a cold.
You only buy designer you gently contest
My clothes are pre-loved again and again.
You sashay across and wave your request
I trip over my laces, complimentary drinks pass me by.
‘Why this old thing? I just threw it on!’ you confessed
I threw mine on too - but missed.
You appear like a film star, a veritable Mae West
I appear like an apparition with no community chest.
So regal and imperial, for you Vogue is obsessed
While I appear in the press resisting arrest.
What elements make up this icon of style?
The Manolos? The diamonds? Or may be the hair?
The perfect make-up? Gleaming teeth and the smile?
They say you would look good even in a bin-liner black
but don’t get ideas, you’re not having it back.
Our wardrobes contain the same elements but the ones that you own
Make us look so different the voice in my head starts to moan.
And you look like the perfectly groomed mother and wife,
While my frock and jumper just hang on for dear life.
By Linda Prince
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| © Calvin Merry |
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