My bodies not a temple, it’s a decaying building site
Most of it doesn’t even come to bed with me at night,
My teeth are in glass on the table by the bed,
My silky golden locks rest on a polystyrene head,
The eyelashes I flutter to make men look on in awe
are now sleeping peacefully, tucked up in a draw.
The lovely hourglass figure that always makes them look,
is created by a corset that, is now hanging on a hook.
My firm and enticing breasts, designed to help me pull,
Go back in the bag at night, with the other cotton wool.
I take off my fingernails; don’t want to lose them in the bed,
Those long red painted talons sleep in a special box instead.
When I have wiped off all the makeup, it takes quite a time,
I wondered if this subterfuge is considered to be a crime.
In adding and subtracting and patching what was cracked,
Have I somehow contravened the trade’s description act!
Now I look into this mirror, and what I see makes me groan,
For what started out a beauty has now turned into a crone!