Slave To Fashion

Clearing out the clutter

Is definitely no mean feat

When your cupboards are exploding with crap

Because you’re a hoarder like me

I like to collect clothes

I’ve had some since 1999

Half of which don’t fit

Though I’ll never give up trying

Apparently three wardrobes

And a man size cupboard

Two whopping chests of drawers

Aren’t enough space so I’m buggered

Therefore got to bite the bullet

And shed a load of gear

The charity shop will love me

Though I’ll be also shedding some tears

When you’re like me

Nothing goes out of fashion

And flamboyant dressing

Is one of my passions

The actress in me

Likes to get titivated up

Thus I’ve a range of costumes

All manner of get ups

Sometimes I look a sight

But I really have such fun

Assembling my outfits

Come snow, sleet, rain or sun

The Imelda Marcos

Of Crouch End

A million pairs of shoes

And of coats, about ten thousand

A vast selection of frocks

In an array of sizes

Woolly jumpers galore

And let’s not forget the trousers

Then there’s the skirts

And a plethora of tops

And last but not least

Pyjamas, gym wear and the knickerbox

So many garments

For so many occasions

I need a walk in closet

That I lack one is a source of frustration

I’ve even used up the space

Underneath my bed

It’s chockablock with scarves and hats

Because the wardrobe is on its last legs

The door fell off today

For honestly it’s full to the brim

And in trying to force it shut

I’ve gone and destroyed the hinge

A lesson at last to be learned

Time to admit I suppose

That I’m a shopaholic

And hopelessly addicted to clothes

I blame that bloody snake

In the Garden Of Eden

For if Adam and Eve hadn’t scoffed the forbidden fruit

We’d be butt naked whatever the season

But the swine, he made them sin

And to cover their abject shame

They attired themselves with fig leaves

Never to be starkers again

And fig leaves led to fashion

They say The Devil Wears Prada

And that snake was the devil in question

Thus possessed am I by that blighter

An exorcism perhaps

Would be more suited to my needs

Or perhaps nudity could hit the catwalks

And become trendy then I would be freed!

Dream on, you silly bint

For, alas, that clearly won’t happen

So continue to purge or resist the urge

To be a dedicated slave to fashion.

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