It has been a while since my last poem, but after a recent mishap with some false tan (I vow to now forever accept my god-given paleness) I was inspired to rhyme once again.
All you ladies who have ever reached for the bottle will understand the perils of the fake tan finger. No matter how careful you are, your hands at one point in your life will have given the game away. Onlookers will realise that no, you haven't been chilling in the Caribbean or cruising around Monaco on a yacht. And it is all the fault of those blotchy fingers.
The application was precise,
A mitt was used and blended thrice.
To bed you go, smothered in mousse
hoping you weren't haphazard or obtuse.
You arise from slumber, and rush to the mirror
the result is pleasing, it sure did deliver.
A smooth golden glow, brown as a conker,
But then you see it, oh what a plonker...
In the crevice of each finger,
that telltale orange stain doth linger.
Scrub as you might those marks wont fade,
evidence of the mistake you made.
As you come to accept your loss,
A mitt was used and blended thrice.
To bed you go, smothered in mousse
hoping you weren't haphazard or obtuse.
You arise from slumber, and rush to the mirror
the result is pleasing, it sure did deliver.
A smooth golden glow, brown as a conker,
But then you see it, oh what a plonker...
In the crevice of each finger,
that telltale orange stain doth linger.
Scrub as you might those marks wont fade,
evidence of the mistake you made.
As you come to accept your loss,
your only options now are thus.
To your parlour do you retreat?
Don a glove, or admit defeat?
Your tan is false and now they know,
Your act of folly, forever your foe.
To your parlour do you retreat?
Don a glove, or admit defeat?
Your tan is false and now they know,
Your act of folly, forever your foe.
Kim K knows...
