Friday, 30 March 2012

Poem: Changing Rooms


“Come shopping” she says,
“You’ll help me choose”,
OK I think, I’ve got nothing to lose,
So Along I trek, 
To emporiums of design,
Where deep inside,
I find much to malign,
For it is not her choices,
Which to be fair, are shrewd,
It’s not any of the staff, who were not at all rude,
I’ll explain the scene to those who are unaware,
I’ll try to do it justice with verve and flair,
Garments are plucked forth from the rail,
Opinions are requested, I try not to fail,
One hurdle over, opinion expressed,
I never worry what matches when I get dressed,
She’s looking for shoes to wear for work,
No flip-flops though, they send the bosses berserk,
I spy some slip ons, nearby some hats,
She replies “But what would I wear with that?”
So off she goes, with garments of choice,
“Do you wish to try those on Miss?” said a voice.
She agrees, and disappears....
So now I stand a man alone,
Complete with crutches and iPhone,
I gaze around so unaware,
Surrounded by floor to ceiling underwear,
Mesmerised by ribbons and bows,
And the frills on womens underclothes,
Then it dawns, the shoppers eyes flicker,
Long haired single man surrounded by knickers,
I try to lean nonchalant by some sockets,
I remember too late, hands out of pockets,
For now I have the shops designers to thank,
Those around me think I’m having a wank,
Why put the changing rooms here?
Why not put them near sofas and beer?
Oh and for the love of God and all mankind,
That dress does not enlarge your behind.

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