I learned the truth at twenty-seven that I have passed my only youth
And only under-24-girls with lots to smile marrywell and then
retire.
The valentines I outgrew, the Friday night charades of youth
Were spent way before yesterday. At twenty-seven I learned the truth.
And those of us with sagging faces, lacking in the youthful graces,
Desperatly remain at home, inventing new creams on the skin
Who'll call to say, "Come out with me," and murmur lovely sweet-nothings?
It isn't all it seems at twenty-seven.
A red-eyed girl in loose-fit-clothes whose name I never can recall
Said, "Pity, please, the ones left stag; they only get what they will see.
The all American well-bred men marries only when they're young.
A guarantee of company and haven for the youngies."
Remember those who eat the cake, lose the bod and start to gain.
Then those dentures of quality are becoming more of a plan.
Those wrinkled eyes will gape at you in dull surprise from more new bills
Exceed accounts received at twenty-seven.
To those of us who know the pain of high school clothes that no longer fit,
And those whose hair no longer thrives when trying out for hair styles.
It was long ago and far away; the world was much younger than today
And hairs are all going so gray for free to ex-ugly ducklings like me.
We all pluck the gray and when we dare to dye we end up in solitaire.
Inventing smooth skin on the face, repenting other lives unknown
That wrinkle says, "Come stay with me," I murmur vague obscenities
At ugly out-grown "girls" like me at twenty-seven.