Mrs S. stood up like a raw, rough, one carat diamond,
tough, soured and bodily fluid.
Thorn among flowers, waving a billet doux,
she’d not seem out of place down “Gin Lane.”
Adrift, squiffy, “I speak the truth,”
she sailed on a whoosy sea of badinage,
full powered, showering footlights with innuendo,
“I tread on the bored” expelling a lung full of stage door dust,
wary of fresh air.
An applauding audience could barely credit her.
“Amontillado? Don’t mind if I do.”
“A very little sip nips me in the buds, dearie poo.”
She embodied the abandonment
of one left at birth on the charity mission step.
Ebbing, flowing, a perplexing wreck,
projecting a comedy of errors,
face screwed like a worn out prune,
smelled vaguely of stagnant pools.
Then she was gone,
followed on by an ill choreographed chorus
of hoofers, silk clad, swirling, clumsy,
across the star struck stage.
mocked and falling flat.