A Cosmic Cowgirl

Fourteen Again, by Victoria Wood

I want to be fourteen again,
When sex was just called number ten,

And I was up to seven and a half.

Boys were for love, girls were for fun.
You burst out laughing if you saw a nun.

Sophistication was a sports car and a chiffon scarf.

I want to be fourteen again,
Tattoo my self with a fountain pen,

Pretend to like the taste of rum and Coke,

Chuck my school hat in a bush,
Spit on my mascara brush,

Buy Consulate and teach myself to smoke.

I want to be fourteen again,
Free rides on the waltzer off the fairground men

For a promise of a snog the last night of the fair—

French kissing as the kiosks shut
Behind the generators with your coconut,

The coloured lights reflected in the Brylcream on his hair.

I want to be fourteen again,
For all the things I didn't know then.

When I was funny, I was famous, I was never ignored,

I was a crazy girl, I had to laugh.
I had Ilya Kuriakin's autograph.

I had no idea you could wake up feeling bored.

Saturday's child works hard for a living

Every Saturday, I've decided I'll post a poem I love. It's a nice idea, no?

Hope, by Emily Dickinson

Hope is the thing with feathers
That perches in the soul,
And sings the tune--without the words,
And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;
And sore must be the storm
That could abash the little bird
That kept so many warm.

I've heard it in the chillest land,
And on the strangest sea;
Yet, never, in extremity,
It asked a crumb of me.