She’d been a little short of cash,
And saw the advert, feeling rash
She’d called the number,
It was as strange
As she had feared.
The students came in twos and threes,
Here to paint her knocking knees,
And curly hair
And wobbly bits,
And great big, sagging, ageing tits.
Said the lecturer,
Who really had been kind to her.
He’d fed her biscuits,
Poured her tea,
Made sure she had been for a wee.
But now the time had come at last,
Where she must bare her bottom (vast)
And step out of her pantyhose,
And put her body out on show.
She slipped away behind a screen,
So her undressing went unseen,
So no one saw her slip and fumble,
No one heard her quietly mumble
Why oh why… Why am I here?
Her stomach tied in knots of fear.
She undressed quickly as she could,
Before she knew it, there she stood,
As naked as her day of birth,
Expecting giggles, fits of mirth,
As she sat astride the chair,
Self-consciously smoothing her grey hair.
But no one laughed or raised a smile
They simply sat and stared a while,
Then lifted pens, or a well worn brush,
And slowly she could feel the flush
Of horror that had scarred her face,
Retreating, gone, without a trace.
She realised soon, that as their muse,
She had no dignity to lose.
She was just knees and arms and tits.
They liked to sketch her wobbly bits.
They thought her interesting, not old,
And loved the stories told by folds.
The grey hairs and the pocks and marks,
Each one, a perfect work of art.
They loved her, and they let her know
By putting on a public show.
She bought a piece, and now her face,
Sits just above her fireplace.