A quirky look at life from a Yorkshire poet and his dog's perspective
Her twelve modules, full to busting,
most of which is gathering dust in
rail on rail of last year's fashion,
bargain buys and must have passion,
cowboy boots for rootin' tootin'
stiletto heels for high-falutin'
balls with flowing, silken dresses,
scarves for her abundant tresses,
bras to lift and some to flatter,
headwear for the maddest hatter.
Her stockpile of fancy knickers
is enough to make the vicar's
wife blush red and as for stockings,
I daren't tell you, it's too shocking.
Trousers long and pants too short,
fashion fads that really ought
never to have seen the sunshine,
like that plunging, daring neckline.
She is such a fashionista;
clothes worn once and that was Easter.
Me, I've got three pairs of shreddies,
same with socks, and Choo's not made his
brass from me, I have two pairs,
a few T-shirts, but who needs airs,
a pair of jeans and denim jacket;
not for me this costa-packet;
then she wonders why I glare
at daily claims, she's nowt to wear.
Shreddies: UK, underpants nowt: Yorkshire slang, nothing