Although I look old and past it, right,
I still look forward to Friday night,
and trying to recreate the magic
(at my age, some would say it’s tragic)
of when a boy would try to kiss me,
left me feeling like a princess, see?
In my time I been called a slag,
my skirts are short, I dance round my bag,
inside there’s a couple of Durex Play
(best be prepared, if I get my way!),
my purse with this week’s benefit,
a Smirnoff mini, just for the hellavit,
and half a pack of Marlboro lights.
My legs are bare, I don’t need tights,
dimpled thighs will look OK
under a layer of San-Tro-Pay.
Badly bleached and sort-of grey
Hair held firm with cans of spray.
To my Nan I made an oath,
to show some leg or tit, not both,
Nor to date with more than one gusset,
remember my brains are my finest asset,
and classy girls, not too chav,
always ask for French Cab Sav.
Brains are good, but I’m afraid,
they don’t help you to get laid.
Made-up to trade-up –
Chucked-up then fucked-up –
this attention-seeking whore
will strut her stuff about the floor
Off comes the nylon lon-jer-ray,
discarded, ripped, it’s had its day –
legs akimbo, what a sight,
the sickly orange urban light
makes her thinning hair seem blonder.
On the back seat of his Honda
the grunting of the spotty lad
makes her feel a little sad.
Granny wouldn’t like her style –
to be wanted for a while –
it’s not like asking for a lot –
anyway, it’s all I’ve got.
Later on, I’ll feel alright.
My boozy, floozy Friday night.