The vintage shopper's lament.

Killer moths, visceral niffs and stains and a million holes,

Vintage dealers hoarding Horrockses with prices beyond the proles.

Dispirited and rummaging amongst vast mountains of retro tat,

Crepe de chine, far from clean and wool that smells of dead cat.

I wail and weep I just want to look as good as my old nan.

Not sporty and drab or young or natural  or just like a man.

I demand pale skin, a painted face and set and rollered hair,

In a world of fake tan, nude lips, ironed hair and tattooed derriers.

Low-slung, natural blonded, blue jeaned and Topshopped,

Completely smocked it’s jerseying me  into utter and complete despair.

Vainly Ebaying to oblivion for the perfect mint forties dress,

Arrives with a smell of death and torn to bits causing more distress.

In desperation, last chance station, forced to forage in Brick Lane,

Hipster retro, thoughts of murder; swear never to do it again.

Even shoes are too dainty, buttons are missing and hats have lost their pins.

Blouses won’t do up over boobies, those ladies were rationing-thin.

Where’s my time lord? Or my trust fund or my magic charity shop?

Because to be honest I’m beginning to smell of moth balls,

And I think, I may have, to, stop.