I wrote this poem as a kind of lament. Like most good poems it doesn’t rhyme and its appeal is hard to determine. In fact, it might seem a bit shite at first but try reading it in a solemn Paul Durkinish kind of way and you’ll soon realise how good it is.
And so, without further ado, I give you:
ORANGE FACED LADY
My orange faced lady
Where did you go?
I used meet you at the close of day
Coming with determined face
From counter or desk among
Dundrum Town Centre resplendent
Kathleen Ni Houlihan dressed in Ralph Lauren
Optimism incarnate
Escalator rider
Nay sayer chider
Your name, was heard in the right places
You knew Conrad Gallagher
He sent you a fondue set for Christmas
And you kept it
Just for fun, for a laugh, a-ha-ha-ha
So look into my face Marie-Claire reader
And remember just who you are
For the light it does fade
The tangerine foundation gives way
A chill wind blows through the House of Fraser
It was all boots and bags
Now its riches back to rags
Don the shawl again and wanly peer from beneath it
Cut your cloth to your measure
For the wonderful dream is over
The kids’ karate lessons are for the chop
It’s Portumna for summer
Oh what a bummer
What could have been
A terrible beauty stillborn
Do you remember the back streets of Naples?
Just for fun, for a laugh, a-ha-ha-ha
Oompa Loompa doompadah dee
If you are wise you'll listen to me
My orange faced lady
Where did you go?
4 comments:
I'm sure the Orange Faced Lady in question is only made up about such a fine pome in her honour...
"A terrible beauty stillborn."
Sir, your poetastery has prompted a mouthful of sick to escape me. My clothes now need to be changed, changed utterly.
My clothes need to be changed too but not for the same reasons as Johns.
The poem is even better when sung in the style of Count John McCormack.
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