A Poem For Friday

Tights

Tights. Now there’s a word,

Which is quite absurd,

Panty hose is just as bad,

And pop socks are a daft fad,

The men all like stockings best,

But those straps are such a pest,

Knee highs seem to be knee lows,

Falling right down to my toes.

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But tights take the crown,

For making me frown,

Whatever the size, it’s wrong,

Sometimes they are far too long,

Other times they are too short,

And between my thighs get caught,

Medium would do, I think,

But all that’s left is bright pink.

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For legs that are wan,

There’s American tan,

Though the rest of me’s a sight,

White arms, brown legs doesn’t look right,

Ivory makes my legs glow,

Even in the pitch black though,

Barely black are a nice hue,

But by mistake, I buy blue.

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Now and then it all works out,

A perfect pair, there’s no doubt,

Alas, there’s always a hole,

Sometimes starting at the sole,

Spreading into a ladder,

Right up, making me madder,

So now I really don’t care,

My legs can always go bare.

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