In frumpy tweed skirt, old cardigan and blouse,
As she admits being too tired to frolic on the beach
And will go instead for a quick dog walk between the wind turbine and electricity pylon.
But says she finds a certain kind of consolation
In accepting that she looks much better naked,
In someone else's minds eye, than she does in reality,
And that it's much more comfortable to wear clothes which could comfortably house
One or two illegal stow aways if she so chose
Than a tini wini bikini. And if you ignore the moth holes and bleach
Spills, and screw your eyes up and squint a bit,
Her outfit has a certain je ne sais quoi. And anyway, this infatuation
With youth and beauty is a bit old hat.
Old hats worn by old biddys are more interesting than firm young flesh,
And big breasts, because they spend their time squashed on to wise heads,
Not wobbling up and down barely contained in bits of brightly coloured nylon.