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Seven ages of woman

All the world's a football pitch,
And all the men and women merely players.
They all get yellow and red cards,
And one woman in her time plays many positions,
Her acts being seven stages.

At first, the baby crying crocodile tears in her daddy’s arms,

Then, the excited schoolgirl with her new bag,
And tired morning face, racing to go like a horse,
Inclined to school,

Then the boyfriend,
Kissing like French, to a romantic song,
But squeezing her spots in between,

Then a round belly, full of new life eager to burst out,
Eating ice cream all day and getting moody all night,
Seeking more attention.

When the baby comes out she’s so delighted,
In a great, big hospital she treats a patient,
Full of wise thoughts on how to mend a broken arm,
With bags under her eyes she is so tired,
And so she plays her part.

The sixth stage shifts
Into fluffy and puffy slippers,
With bifocals hooked over her ears,
Her youthful eyes have disappeared,
For her massive boobies and her loud voice
Return again to their childhood state,
She snores and whistles in her sleep.

Last scene of all, when she lies on her deathbed,
Is second childishness and mere oblivion,
No teeth, No eyes, No taste,
She has been sent off.

by Shannon Thomas

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