Local Lasses

local-lasses

Long-haired summer girls in frocks
Who like to dance without their socks
On wet sand, bite their lips in thought
And move like ballerinas ought –
You won’t find them round here.
It’s chips and fags and bargain beer
For our skanks.
And come the summer they’re out in ranks,
With pallid rolls of fat displayed
In crop tops, denim skirts and sprayed-
On orange tan to hide their faces.
They haven’t got a clue what grace is,
So they walk like they’re in pain
A striding gait just like John Wayne,
With swallow tattoos on their backs
That look as though their thongs have snapped.

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