The Bridesmaid
Scowling down she cannot see herSix year old unleavened legs.
They are hidden beneath an
Uncharacteristic flimsy of lemon.
Layer after layer...with an insult
Of roses around the final hem.
She's some kind of maid today.
They have schooled her out
Of the shorts and into this citrus
Concoction that itches her back
As she files down the aisle praying
No-one who matters can see her.
As she stands still for the droning
She gazes over her posy and it dawns that
The round lemon and rosebud contraption
They have placed upon her head
Will make a fishing hoop!
She lets out a tiny whoop and tries
To look pretty in lemon.
Poetry by jenks
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Written on 2010-08-29 at 18:33
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