Here comes the Volvo and the four by four,
And the Jag, or the hybrid; the cars they adore.
It’s the smart set - the preening ladies who lunch -
Yummy mummies who gossip and munch.
Identical haircuts in identikit lives.
Looking, to all, like the Stepford Wives.
Kiddies sliced out, and shoved into Nanny’s control.
Then trendy daycare and THE right school. That is the goal.
They bray, and they boast, and stick with their peers.
Showing photographs of recitals, gymkhanas and Tarquin’s gap year.
All about image. Keeping up with the in-crowd.
Must follow the herd. Suitable marriage, they vowed.
The children are accessories. The heir and the spare.
Ornaments to dress, show off, and compare.
No more important than other dinner party chat.
Such as their three holidays a year, or who’s getting fat.
These missus’ are more interested in mani/pedi’s and a good facial,
Leaving them Botoxed, injected with a look that is glacial.
So they meet, and they bleat, together in packs.
Then off to the salon for a Brazilian wax.
But where is the love? Where is the care?
Does all that affection goes into an affair
With the personal trainer, who gropes at her breast?
Or does it end up in the empty bottle of Scotland’s best?
Perfect lives. Perfect wives.
Perfect weight. Perfect mate.
Perfect spouse. Perfect house.
Perfect wedding ring. Perfect off-spring.
Perfect folks. Perfect HOAX.
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