Mannequins wear the latest fashions
And statues have the best physiques
So, models lives are filled with passion?
(At least that's the current going mystique)
Sweat pants are passe, so I go
To closet, where hang three hundred pants
And select some capris, that aren't too low
To show some calf, if given the chance.
In the olden days clothing was very dense;
A wall to insulate you from the world
Long skirts were a girl's own personal fence
To make sure nothing untoward unfurled.
Even swimsuits then were long and draping
People must have drowned from the weight:
The man with the tape measure, always there saying
You're an inch too short, for the going rate.
I'll stick with the pants, thank you, it's fine-
I'm no sculpture or marionette;
When the thongs and bikinis finally unwind
They can never say I was a coquette.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem