His smile an invitation I could plainly see,
I very promptly answered his implied R.S.V.P.
But later on I wished that I had just let it be,
for that smile was for another girl the minute he had me!
An open invitation is his modus operandi.
Every social gathering provides him more eye candy.
Once seen, a tiny little lick is what he seems to savor.
He likes it when each taste he takes presents a different flavor.
Every toothsome girl he sees stirs his appetite,
and even though his smile suggests he’d like a little bite,
no matter what the tasty dish is that you choose to serve,
you’ll never be a main course, but merely an hors d’oeuvre.
Capable? I fear I’m not
for usually, I’m too hot.
Sleeves I do for vanity,
but capes weren’t made for folks like me.
If the capes are long and fem,
I get my heels caught in the hem,
and if they’re roomy and too wide,
I find that I get lost inside.
I get my purse strap tangled in,
the neck tangled around my chin.
The bat wings flap and catch the breeze.
The wool ones make me gasp and sneeze.
So, if you’re a swaddler, leave me be.
I like my torso cover-free.
To dress passé? A fashion sin, yet everything old is new again. So if your dress length’s out of date all you have to do is wait. In twenty years, you’ll be in vogue, in what last year marked you a rogue.
Who dictates fashion is beyond me. As are those who wait to see whether ankle, thigh or knee is where a garment’s end should be and whether cowl or boat or vee is the right neckline for the tee
they tuck into their faded jeans—
now ripped and shredded like a dumpster queen’s. Following fashion’s every word? I fear I find it most absurd. I want the knees left in my jeans, my butt well-covered, by all means.
What clothes you wear should be your passion, not merely what’s okayed by fashion. There should be no laws or rules regarding clothes or hats or jewels except what shows us who you are. Each woman her own runway star.
The prima ballerina, the starlet and the queen might give the appearance that they’ve neither heard nor seen the hooting and the hollering, the screams and wild applause emitted by the hoi polloi with very little cause except for their appearance on the street or on the stage, where they put themselves on view like exotics in a cage. Yet imagine their surprise, not to mention consternation if even a mere glimpse of them did not prompt an ovation!
I bought this cane with a built-in flashlight for my sister when I thought she was going to have knee surgery. Little did I think that I’d be the one using it! (Her surgery was cancelled.)
My enthusiasm’s quickly fading as my energy’s abating. Took a fall this morning, so I’m getting around mighty slow. My knee is wrecked, I cannot bend it. An Ace bandage I’ve found can’t mend it. My wrist is swollen out an inch. (Being a klutz is not a cinch.)
I hope I’m better by and by, but I can’t bear to touch my thigh. I didn’t see the vacuum cord there on the floor, and then, oh Lord, since I was rushing, I took a fall and now I cannot run at all. When it comes to walking, I’m a gimp. I lurch and stumble, sway and limp.
The only thing I’m grateful for is how it happened and nothing more. Two nights I’ve slaved and worked ’til four,
then gone to bed happy but sore. I’ve painted, cleaned and stowed away so I’d be ready for this day. And although I’d had no warning I’d take a tumble late this morning,
my work’s all done. I’ve trimmed the tree, and the last thing put away IS ME!