SALLOW GIRL MEETS THE SUN.
Sallow british girl meets the sun.
An unheard of concept on her overcast isle.
Her liver vomit skin does not
Shine with the walnut sheen of Spanish girls.
It hits the bottle, mottling itself red and yellow;
A radioactive and putrid
Bile hide with the malcontent of a child who prefers libraries.
Nicotene stained right through to the soul
You cannot exfoliate the kingdom of her birth; the precipative masterpiece of pale faces and bookish looks,
The colour of bad breath and of long left standing
Cups of tea.
Her Britishness preceeds her
To every car, every bar, every airport check-in desk.
That self effacing chubbiness and mouse hair, it coughs a polite apology for its origin.
The sallow girl will sigh on the inside of her obviousness
Beating herself with a yellow fist for her tendancy to
Give the game away.
It can't be helped.
So, this summer, and for many summers after,
The sallow girl meets the sun,
and decides she prefers the rain.