Wonder Woman

An Eighty year old

With

Plastic tits

Orange hews

Stuck on nails

Fuck me shoes

She's dying

But fucking hell

She's trying

She looks good

For an old bird

Botox?

Peroxide?

How fab

Will this look

In

Formaldehyde?

She's

Done well

To keep

The look of youth

No one

Knows

How long

In

The tooth

She truly is?

Only 

Death

Will tell

The truth

No plastic surgeon

Can help her

there.

Sunday Dinner at Harry's

Gravy glistened upon his chin
Wine stained lips all aquiver
Anticipating
The sliver
Of beef upon his fork
On his tongue
Medium rare, it melted
And to the Yorkshire pud
Crisp and brown
It slipped down
Most agreeably
Swished with Ruby Cabernet
Glug!
He shilly-shallied between
The carrot and the bean
But decided to spear both
In an obscene
Fashion
And slosh
Another drop of sauvignon
Like the curve of a woman's hip
He slavered over a splendiferous spud
Roasted
Down the gullet it did slip
Chops slapped
As he lapped and feasted onwards
Afterwards
A napkin daintily dabbed
Signalled that he was finally sated
He undid a button or two
And waited

For dessert to come.