Snapshots from Green Victoria (tedwords) wrote,
Snapshots from Green Victoria

Portrait of a Fat Lady

I wrote this, like, years ago. I still kind of like it, because it reminds me of a certain someone, although poetry's not my forte, and it is a bit clunky. TJM

Mustachioed Martha, we used to call her, and she would have made a terrific freak show all by herself
The fat lady and the bearded bombshell all rolled into one
With oodles of quadruple chins and arms that jiggle-wiggled as she moved
With a hormonal imbalance (as she so delicately phrased it) that inspired hairs to grow like crabgrass
On her fat cheeks, her fat tummy, her fat, whiskered, dimpled chin.

Martha had the body of a bowling pin
Flat-iron chest sewn on to thunderous thighs in a ridiculously disproportionate manner
A Frankenstein lacking the tell-tale seams
Oh how it gave us a laugh to watch Martha, delicately placing her monstrous bulk,
Squeezing her lardass into a narrow seat, plugging herself in like a cork in a champagne bottle
Instead of popping, the chair rumbled with displeasure

She spoke in a soprano whine, in defiant denial of her hormonal imbalance
Making up sweet pet names for the fellows she liked
Guys who would cringe in embarrassment as her high pitched
"Donnikins!" fingers-on-chalkboard'd through the room, rendering one and all into
Fits of sour bubbling laughter
Tommykins, Dickyclause, Harrydoodle
Any stray she could rope, a devout dog-catcher rounding up any cur that met the eye

Martha put on quite a good show
For she was certainly one of God's creatures meant to amuse
An obese furry freak of nature in people's clothing
Like a hummingbird, flittering about from group to cluster
Always trying to stick her fat nose into other people's no-good business
The Mustachioed Wonder would be a bother if she weren't half so amusing

Yet sometimes, one would catch a gleam from Martha, a rare unexpected shine
A serious gaze passed on her face, offering a view to the inner bearded marvel
How did it feel, to be inside, looking out
Trapped forever as a ridiculous disfigurement
Trapped forever as an ape-like, balloon-like, mousy-like freak of bemused nature

Sometimes when Martha spoke,
Her voice would lower and a content, childishly happy, trusting, peaceful tone would take over
Breaking through the glad-I'm-not-her pity and casting her into a different role
"I know what I am," it seemed to say, in whatever way it chose it
"I know what I am, and that's okay, for at least I'm not the pearl casting judgment upon the

In my own self-centered way, I did love Mustachioed Martha, the freak show unto herself
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