Which bright spark insisted

That a dress should have its zip

Mostly located at the spine

Running from neck to hip?

Did they assume all women

And transvestites of this world

Would have a 24/7 partner

Or professional contortionist skills?

Or that we could simply sprout

A pair of extra long arms

Like flaming Inspector Gadget

That extend beyond the norm?

You need to be an Octopus

To zip yourself up alone

With a PHD in yoga

Like a coil chord from an old phone

The times I’ve almost slipped a disc

Trying to get my damn dress to fasten

Upside down, reaching for my butt

Bending over backwards

Twisting, turning, toiling

To no bloody avail

And still I can’t yank the zip up

Much higher than my tail

Without really starting to wobble

Almost hitting the deck

Wrestling hard, cursing out loud

Profusely working up a sweat

It’s really such a ball ache

And to admit this I am loathe

But frequently I leave the house

Indecently exposed!

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