High Street

High heels like peacocks on stilts Eyes piercing like porcupine spikes Bear heavy mascara like war paint Lips so red like they’ve never been kissed We suit up for the show down The wardrobe mirror decides the crown Our sway leading the way Our e-goes leave the driveway To jam the payroll en route the freeway As we carve a niche along the concrete pathway Dark sunglasses for added couture Style galore in ‘Mzazi fosho!’ These are high stakes The fashion police issue hefty fines for any mistakes Sanctioning you off the fashion calendar No points for ‘colour blockin’ and poor posture The isle to the photocopier becomes the runway The city streets become the fashion highways