In My Dream World Again

There once was a time when, I venture to say,

The men in my presence would all look my way.

I received many whistles, admiring my shape,

And all the pleasing glances I could not escape.

But the years have betrayed me, as often they do.

My mirror reveals a wrinkle, or two.

My backside is spreading. My front's falling down.

My body has morphed from my head to the ground.

They no longer whistle. They don't even look.

They now seek the wisdom I gleaned from a book.

The excitement of beauty is simply a ruse.

For men, it's intended to confound and confuse.

For women, it's fraudulent, fleeting, and fake.

It's so unimportant when we judiciously awake.

But, I have to admit when my girdle I wear,

And the grey and white highlights reflect from my hair,

That I rather enjoyed being ogled and sought.

It's nice to be looked at admiringly, as hot.

But, as I recall the bikinis, and such,

I realize I'm dreaming. I'm so out of touch!

I never again will be pretty or fair.

And frankly, I'm too old and too tired to care.