There is an old lady from Tring
Who believes she is right in the swing.
Though she leaks at both ends
And her BO offends
She glistens with tattoos and bling.
Her trainers are white as cocaine
Though she can’t see the obvious stain
Where a Pot Noodle fell
And she really can’t tell
That her mobile is ringing again.
Her body is like a cadaver.
She wonders why no-one will have her
For her belly is bare
She bleaches her hair
And tries very hard not to slaver.
Her gelled ponytail in elastic
Means treametnt both frequent and drastic
For her Croydonf acelift
Can no longer shift
Her eyebrows or furrows fantastic.
Now botox has smoothed out her wrinkles,
In her teeth a small diamond twinkles
Though they move as she speaks
Much more than her cheeks
As she stiffly sprays wet spittle sprinkles.
She wriggles her bum as she dances
In the hope of a young man’s advances,
Though, with new hips and knees
She’s sure she can please,
All she gets are some very odd glances.
At sixty, her daughter’s the same
Her grand-daughter too has no shame
She’s just forty-four
And her daughter is sure
She’ll soon be a grandma again.
If you go to the Mall, they’ll be there,
Six bobbing heads of blonde hair,
Of chavette relations
Mistaking the reason we stare.