I feel like a hideous old hag today. I have decided to take this with humour, so here is a hideous old hag poem penned especially for you (and you, and you, and you). Step aside, Wordsworth.
(Photo credit: Wikipedia)
We all know how the story goes:
“Snow White and Queen Crooked Nose”.
A corny tale. All soft and sappy.
Boy meets girl, and all ends happy.
Snow White’s young and Snow White’s simple,
Each cheek sports a little dimple.
(Fore or aft cheek? I won’t say -
I think it’s funnier that way).
On her skin there’s not a wrinkle,
crows’ feet or the slightest pimple.
Now what about Queen Crooked Nose?
Everyone knows one of those.
Over fifty, smells of bleach,
and wears men’s Y-fronts on the beach.
An evil cow, she has been known
to lock up kiddies all alone
Then bully them as they implore
her not to make them lick the floor.
Abruptly from her slumbers torn,
Crooked Nose awoke one morn,
Dreams of Prince Charming on a ladder
Disturbed by morse code from her bladder.
Crooked Nose said, “Bugger me!
My bladder’s full – I need a wee!”
She lifted up her evil head
and staggered slowly out of bed.
In the bathroom, washing hands,
in front of mirror Crooky stands.
She nods her head and says, “Woohoo!
Snow White, I’m prettier than you!”
Pulling close she strikes a stance
Like Cindy Crawford in a trance.
“Mirror, Mirror, on the wall,
Who is the fairest of them all?”
The mirror chokes.
The lightbulb flickers
As Crooked Nose drags on big knickers.
Into the mirror the old hag stares,
Her hairy nostrils widely flared.
“I asked a question!” she declared.
“Please answer, then I’ll go downstairs.”
The mirror said, “I’ve had my dose
Of vanity in panty hose.
You’ve asked for it so here we go:
Don’t say I didn’t tell you so.
You’re an old hag, through and through,
So please wake up and smell the brew.
Although the news may make you blue,
Snow White’s light years ahead of you.”
This little ditty is the result of a rude awakening at breakfast this morning (I only wake up when I have drunk my coffee). You can either read on to understand, or turn off your computer and go and do something more exciting, like writing a poem. (If I can do it, so can you.)
All mothers remember that moment when your child comes up really close, holds your face in his hot little hands, and stares earnestly right into your soul. He informs you with great seriousness that you are “the most beautiful mummy in the whole wide world” before planting a heartfelt, soggy kiss halfway across your eye and running off, leaving you with your heart fluttering, your stomach jiggling like a gym bag full of crickets, and salty, happy tears mingling with the trail of snot they left on your cheek.
Well, this morning, after seventeen years of reign, I lost my position as Most Beautiful Mummy in the World. Yup. Heartbreaking stuff. I’ve been demoted – I’ve lost my Most Beautiful Mummy Badge. I am gutted.
I would get over it, cos hey… shit happens. Seventeen years have taken their toll on me – gravity had the great idea of pulling my boobs downwards and sticking them on my butt. Yet what peeved me isn’t the fact that I’m not as beautiful as I was 17 years ago. It’s because I have been thrown off the podium by none other than Beyoncé. Bigfoot informed me this morning that she had been elected “the most beautiful mother in the world”. As he grabbed my laptop to show me a video of her gyrating and pouting across a beach, my heart sank into my boots.
“Bigfoot! Yoohooo! I’m over here!” Beyonce waiting for Bigfoot at Los Angeles Airport. (Photo credit: Eva Rinaldi Celebrity and Live Music Photographer)
Beyoncé is a mother; all resemblance with MM stops there. Her assets have enabled her to pip me to the post: apparently, a pert bosom, a butt tauter than Rocco Siffredi’s jock strap, and the aptitude to fold herself in half whilst singing and pouting into a camera outweigh my meagre contribution to Bigfoot’s happiness. I’m weedy competition – my lousy getting up every night for two years on the trot, cleaning up sick, wiping up tears, lying through my teeth to lovesick teenaged girls at the door whilst he hid behind the sofa and taxiing him to and from parties in the dead of night don’t appear to come anywhere close.
So Beyoncé, as the Abba song goes, “the winner takes it all”. I’m sad, but you’ll be inheriting him just as soon as I’ve got his ticket sorted. Just a couple of things: Bigfoot needs lots of food. If he slaps you on the backside and shouts « Run, everyone – tsunamiiiii! », it actually means that he quite likes you. If he goes all quiet on you, leave him be and he’ll be back to talk when he needs to. And watch out at the shopping mall, he’s got expensive tastes in clothing. When you’ve both had enough, can you ask him who the most beautiful mother in the world is? Thanks.