PLUMES AND TEARS

The time has come when willynilly
We must be
US:
Not the latest fashion illusion,
Cramming those frightful
Frightening hats upon ourselves:
Squeezing our ugliness into
The glass slipper of Success:
Look - it fits, it fits
Its agony, but it fits:
So help me it must fit
The more it maims me
Time is chiming now
For poor old Cinders -
Quick- pluck the ostrich of its plumes
Forour Pompe Funebre:
His head is in the sand,
And our is up our arse,
He can't see: we won't look,
And swear no one can see.

Kill the crockodile
For my old bag,
Those tears now are
Making all the mascara run,
Come, come, disguise
The naked nastiness of me:
I won't, shan't, will not see!