There are hair grips and tweezers and tickets and packets of peppermint chews,
lipsticks and toothpicks and matchsticks and chopsticks from Wanton & Wu’s,
pills to quell onsets of illness and coupons and tampons and shoes.
What I carry is bunged up to bursting – I’m cursed with the bulging bag blues!
There’s a mobile and earphones and rhinestones that popped off my top on a cruise,
some eau de cologne, a slick silver hip-flask for booze,
a bulb that has blown, a strange stone, and six unidentified screws.
The zipper’s not looking too chipper – I’m cursed with the bulging bag blues!
There’s some spare underwear, a ripe pear, and seed for my three cockatoos,
a town guide, Advice For a Bride, a flyer I couldn’t refuse . . .
I'm viewing a mound that’s just hit the ground − some very bad news! −
all my hoard is now strewn on the sward – I’m cursed with the bulging bag blues!
So, since what I trusted is busted, I need a replacement to use−
something slimmer, a light shoulder-skimmer (for the shopping trip I’ll borrow Prue’s )−
but, as trying to fit all my kit in one tiny slit won't amuse,
I'll not seek for the stylish and chic, but a pouch like a kangaroo’s!