You Ain't Kate Moss

© 2013 David Jasmin-Green

“Waaaaah!” I screech in mortal terror -
befuddled and bedazzled by the disquieting apparition
I am momentarily numbed into silence,
and my gast is well and truly flabbered.
“What is this, Claire?” I eventually cry. “Is that really you
under all them layers of soddin' muck?
“Whasamatter? Whaddafuck? What powers and principalities
of ye olde Satanic 'ierarchy gave such an 'orrendous abomination
the right to bleedin' well exist in this 'allowed earthly realm
supposedly protected by the supplications of the pious?
You look like a Goth on acid that's been wired up to the mains –
'an you ain't goin' out in that mini-skirt, you might as well
go out in the bastard nuddie.”

“Fuck you,” my one and only true love replies. “Just 'cos
I'm wearin' me new dead tarantula eyelashes, me Rimmel mascara
exactly the same as wot Kate friggin' Moss wears
and a bit of blood red lippy doesn't mean I've abandoned me faith
and turned to the soddin' devil, you great, moanin' bloody twit.
Maybe I should go out in the bastard nuddie.....
Anyway, I 'appen to think I look rather fetchin', an' maybe
if a nice enough bloke gives me the eye
while I'm out clubbin' with me mates I ought to give 'im the eye back.
Maybe if a gorgeous, meaty 'unk winks at me I should wink back
an' see what develops, 'as the pre-digital age photographer said
to 'is shapely assistant before enterin' the sexually charged darkroom.”

“If that's the way you're gonna take my 'eartfelt concerns about
your welfare, my love, then maybe I should bloody well come with you,”
I hurriedly reply. “'An let's get one thing straight -
'owever much crap you pile on, you ain't Kate friggin' Moss.”