I pass no judgement. Who am I to judge
The arithmetic of need, or to begrudge
A flighty Bird of Paradise her nest
Beneath some strutting cock’s resplendent breast?
I offer no security of mind,
Neither in wealth — nor in companionship;
The days of sweat-slicked nights are now consigned
To memories of latex and the whip.
Such things are now a liability,
The urge of motherhood’s desirability
Requires a swap of patent six-inch heels
For early nights, plain frocks and wholesome meals.
Let those who would cry ‘hypocrite’ be dumb,
We none can bend the clock to stay its climb,
As youth recedes — these flawless pouts succumb
To apathy. All seeds grow stale in time.