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PostPosted: Thu Dec 31, 2015 2:45 pm
by gray_marian
A face with a thousand wrinkles - she’d come to do her hair,

In the kitchen near the pickles she was sitting there,

Wearing an old red towel, her tresses not so fine,

The wife stuck all the rollers in, resembling porcupine.

She added then the chemicals, the smell was quite atrocious,

Sending out an awful stink - a bit like halitosis,

Next she put the dryer on - won`t hear what I say,

I cannot make the coffee, guess who’s in the way?

Checking in the mirror looking for the roots,

All her bracelets jangling - the ones she bought in Boots,

Gossiping with slander and slurping mugs of tea,

Wolfing down the biscuits like a refugee.

Spouting off on politics and stinking of Old Spice

Her diet's shot out the window but she's giving me advice

Then came the tearful bit, amongst the diatribe,

The picture of adversity because her cat had died.

Continuing the treatment and all that it entails,

Gets the scarlet varnish out to paint her fingernails,

Soon she's gazing happy with the powder and the paint,

Gathering up her normal face - of a persecuted saint.

She ups and lights a ciggy - doesn’t really care,

Leaving piles of fag-ash underneath the chair,

Thinks she’s looking sexy, gives me a dirty leer,

Then she goes and helps herself - to my favourite beer.

She tells me that the daughters turn out just like mothers

Reminding me quite starkly while hitching up her udders

Now she feels quite beautiful, she smiles and looks at me,

I have a sudden feeling I should be miles away at sea.

By Joe Earl.