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Poor Cow
She'd tousled hair
and crumpled skirt,
her fingernails were
lined with dirt.
with teeth all brown,
she wore a frown,
her hips so wide
they hid the ground
Her legs were short,
her feet were large.
The way she moved
was like a barge.
A ciggy hung
from ruby lips
and much smoke billowed
from its tip.
She coughed a lot
her breath was foul
She'd hang about
for hours and hours
outside bars and restaurants,
her hidden and
dubious charms
to flaunt.
Now let me pause
a moment here
I do not wish
to bend your ears.
Oh heaven save you
such intrusion!
This story, must though,
reach conclusion.
If you saw the woman
of whom I speak
you may feel shocked
and a little weak
for she was a funny
shade of pink!
I cannot lie,
she liked a drink
Her heart was good
but her tale is a sad'n
for under a number 6 bus
she was flattened!
If she'd have been sober
she'd be alive now
but fate dealt her a blow
and she's dead, poor cow.
poem
by
Ruth Walters
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