My Poetry: The Cuckoo

The cuckoo

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Bottle blonde babe
thirteen birthdays past her prime
prances out of time
to local radio tracks
as old as those
dotted across her arms
as she puffs her plumage
and dusts her cleavage
with cheap perfume
in preparation
of finding a nest
for the night.
Her tight high street rags,
costume diamonds
and Mum pendant
just poor reminders
of a credit card past
when she used to glide
through the bars
like a Holywood star,
but tonight
her ailing charms
will be dished out for free
to people she always used to
dismiss with a sneer
in the hope they return the smile
she traded for champagne
and roses
from men
who went
just after they came.