With red painted toes, black crust on her heal
she’s slipped into stilts for that summertime feel.
Clock, slip, clack, slip, click, and Pantene Pro-V
and that shiny new hair flick as she overtakes me.
While weight watchers samba around ly-cra tight glutes
gay and straight clamber to touch up her roots.
She’s high fashion, low belt line, max factored for all weathers
she’s re-sprayed her sunshine and Brazilianed her nethers.
White sling-backs on kilter, she’s ready and able
to highlight her assets, her Pri-Marne price labels
and as I watch, the sway of her figure
my beer belly drops and bald patch grows bigger
my left shoulder aches for her thimble sized bag
and I move one step closer to being just like my dad.