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.
