I walked behind an agéd tart,
Along a glorious country lane,
I did not see from whence she came,
She just appeared and passed in front,
And neither of us smiled or talked.
Her tired legs set wide apart,
Her gait unbalanced, slightly lame,
She toddled on yet seemed to gain
A deal of ground in not much time,
Her mouth, a gash, also askew,
Was painted in some pale red hue.
Her clothes were polyester, black,
Part see through chiffon at the back,
Perhaps no longer on the game,
Yet somehow she still had the knack,
Of advertising as she walked,
Her former trade, to men of slime -
The pleasures of her withered cunt.