The Princess And The Pea

    I wear a ruffle of applause
    like feathers round my neck,
    which is satin, frankly.

    I'd rather that you didn't tinker
    with the silver catch in my throat.

    For an hour now, the limelight
    has lingered on me,
    bruising the skin of my eyelids.

    My hair was braided by sticklers
    who dared not draw breath
    until I was finished.

    Perhaps you have never sketched
    a figure so perfect. No, absolutely.

    I intend to spend my declining
    years on the lip of this stage,
    knocking back perfume
    neat from the bottle, too,
    and before your oblivious eyes.

From Robinson Crusoe's Bank Holiday Monday