Bronzed beach fillies lark in the sea foam,
As she saunters past, pasty milk skin the colour of bone
Peeps from the depths of heavily-lined rolls
Where children and cheap cigarettes took their toll.
Smudged rouge and charcoaled liner can’t hold back the rolling years,
Nor ash blonde bottle dye disguise her mileage and worn gears.
Age spots coat her crinkled leather-like shell,
Where decades of wrinkles weathered her well.
Once a trophy wife, her glories and looks have faded,
Just a bored and jilted housewife, defeated and jaded.
Frustrated, her imagination runs wild
Of boisterous bachelors and passions riled.
In dreams, she has her pick of men,
As she returns to the prime of youth again.
But her body is marked by the ravages of time,
Shrivelled and pickled as if soaked in brine.
Unwanted, well-used, her worth is little
Her soul and heart left soft and brittle,
From years of heartbreak, despair and woe,
Past her prime, confidence at a low.
Unattractive, hagged, no men look her way,
As they cop an eyeful of young skin on display
Of unblemished complexions and athletic hips,
Of toned, taut tums and kissable lips.
They frolic half-naked in the salty surf,
In tiny string bikinis they tease with mirth.
The whale can only look on and stare
While beached in a sad, battered chair
And think back at the early years of her life
Long before she was a haggered housewife.
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