Oh no, we couldn’t go there, my dear

It’s that kind of a place you know.

With blowsy blondes and bulging busts

And braying men with ginger hair

Whose hands keep patting you know where

We couldn’t go there, my dear.

Oh no, we couldn’t got there my dear.

Its that sort of a place you know

There’s Careful cutting of brand new cards

And silent tables and gimlet glares

Sitting round on upright chairs

We couldn’t go there, my dear.

Oh no, we couldn’t go there my dear,

Its that kind of a place you know

With candles burning and incense swinging

And statues of the Virgin Mary

I think we’d have to be very wary….

No, we couldn’t go there, my dear.

Oh no, we couldn’t go there, my dear,

Its that kind of a place, you know.

They are all so old, none under eighty

Slurping tea and one plain biscuit

I really think we couldn’t risk it,

No, we couldn’t go there, my dear.

Two lonely genteel ladies, afraid

Of finding something different

From their fifty-year old standards

live sheltered in their doilyed homes

existences so monochrome

They are hardly there at all.

© Gillian Peall

 

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2 thoughts on “TWO LADIES

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