By Shirley McIntyre
I’m sick of the sight of my pre-Covid clothes,
They show off my wobbly fat tum.
I have shirts with no buttons, and jeans with zapped zips,
They’ll never squash over my bum.
There are coats that won’t close, and ganzies that gape,
Bras bullied by bulging big breasts.
And there’s no way these burgeoning bosoms,
Will squeeze into tight tiny vests.
So into the charity bag they must go,
‘cos I’m sick of the guilt that they bring.
When I look at their shape, and then down at mine,
I know I can’t wear things that cling.
Those days are long gone and I have to accept,
I’ve doubled my pre-Covid weight.
I’m not a ‘petite’, well only in height,
Reminisce about being size eight.
Hi, I’ve always fancied myself as a wordsmith, and I have self-published two books. I’ve also written an anecdotal column in a local newspaper about my dogs’ antics.