Beige
As I get to be another year older, I think I’m starting
to change.
My taste has gone right out of the window in a way that
seems spooky and strange.
It all began with magnolia; other paint colours just
seemed to gawp.
I could no longer stand any bright shades, and I
developed a fondness for taupe.
I believe that it’s a rite of passage, one you reach at a
certain age.
Everything else appears far too jazzy, and you get your
first craving for beige.
It used to be brown, the colour of ear-wax, but the
appeal of that tint’s started to fade.
What I was really looking for, I realised, was something
matched to my hearing-aid.
It’s the same thing with clothing - attractive material
now makes me retch.
I find I’m shopping for easy-care fabrics, and trousers
with waistbands that stretch.
“No-iron”, and “Sta-prest” things that are cosy, and
easy-clean, so long as they’re not green.
Slacks, wind-cheaters and cardigans, in a nice Polyester,
or in Crimpelene.
I’m becoming an old person, I think, I’m obviously reaching
that stage,
Where I don’t care any more what things look like, but
it’s more important to be beige.
I crave a jacket with leather elbow patches, and trousers
with vents and with slants,
Anything that will hide the volume, and the shape of my
incontinence pants.
I’m not looking for sex, but my reading specs; with
bright colours I’m near sated,
And it’s no longer the style, but the comfort, which is
why everything I wear’s elasticated.
I’d rather be dead, than wear anything red: in fact that
would drive me to rage,
And I wouldn’t feel mellow, dressed up in yellow; no –
the only thing that’ll do now is beige.
I’d put up a fight, never to wear white; the loss of the
rainbow I’m not going to rue.
I’m just same about purple or black, and don’t even mention
royal blue!
No – it’s time to accept that time has moved on, my taste
has declined, and I’ve turned over a page,
So you can keep all shades and variations – there’s only
one colour for me now – and it’s beige.
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