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I dreaded it when I hit the age of waist band stretch.
The choices I have are butterflies with glitter; they make me wretch.
Can you spell dumpy and frumpy? Because now I can for sure.
Fashion designers have excused themselves from old women mature.

Sure, we are slower, but are we less wise in the head?
Do we want to wear navy and black for years ‘til we’re dead?
I look at my choices. Where are the oranges? A purple or pink?
The fact is that in woman’s world, my options pretty much stink. 

I see the size two’s and three’s and fours, and I want to wear them.
They are colorful and sexy, I think as I cough up my phlegm. 
I see no linens, no waists, nothing fitted or smart.
I leave the store gladly, exiting with a well-chosen fart.

I want something sensual, colorful, and fashionable too.
The best I can do is a two-toned high-heeled shoe.
Where are the fashion designers for women of distinction like me?
I walk to the next store, where the selections are identical, I see.

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