Since I was born in 1969,
I cannot claim that my dear Valentine,
Still loves loves those little faults which are all mine,
Or can forgive them, as they are in plenty.
I’m getting old and grey
And rather shabby,
And even more ill tempered, sharp and crabby,
And can’t be arsed to act some soppy way,
Because it is St Valentine his day.
I slapped some makeup on, and did my hair,
Knowing that my husband wouldn’t care,
Because he’s tired, having been away.
Then put my varifocals back on,
Because my vision isn’t 2020,
And changed out of my dress all ruched and shifty
(Which left me feeling cold as well as flabby
And emphasised my figure had gone)
Back into tweedy things all wooly:
For no one loves an old bag when she’s fifty.