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There is an old lady from Tring
Who believes she is right in the swing.
  Though she leaks at both ends
  And her BO offends
She glistens with tattoos and bling.

Her trainers are white as cocaine
Though she can’t see the obvious stain
   Where a Pot Noodle fell
   And she really can’t tell
That her mobile is ringing again.

Her body is like a cadaver.
She wonders why no-one will have her
   For her belly is bare
   She bleaches her hair
And tries very hard not to slaver.

Her gelled ponytail in elastic
Means treametnt both frequent and drastic
   For her Croydonf acelift
   Can no longer shift
Her eyebrows or furrows fantastic.

Now botox has smoothed out her wrinkles,
In her teeth a small diamond twinkles
   Though they move as she speaks
    Much more than her cheeks
As she stiffly sprays wet spittle sprinkles.

She wriggles her bum as she dances
In the hope of a young man’s advances,
   Though, with new hips and knees
   She’s sure she can please,
All she gets are some very odd glances.

At sixty, her daughter’s the same
Her grand-daughter too has no shame
   She’s just forty-four
   And her daughter is sure
She’ll soon be a grandma again.

If you go to the Mall, they’ll be there,
Six bobbing heads of blonde hair,
   Six generations
   Of chavette relations
Mistaking the reason we stare.