The clatter of horseshoes on cobblestone

once bore young Victoria through my door

to party night long and let champagne flow.

But, hostess with the mostest, I am no more.

 

The ravages of time and years of neglect

my face my figure, no longer flatter

unfashionable wardrobe does not connect 

in age of friends and tweets, style does matter.

 

They spent a fortune tucking my tummy

and lifting my face, buying new fashion

a second chance at what I used to be

of class and style, I have just begun.

 

In search of her tiger skin and curry

I see a young Victoria dismayed.

Old dames in pretty frocks do worry

Of substance for the sake of style mislaid.