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.