I contemplate you, stranger, with a disapproving eye:
your balding head is pony-tailed, I can’t imagine why.
You must have thought those clothes make you look spunky if not spry,
but truth be known, they only make you look afraid to die.
I contemplate you, madam, with opprobrium in view:
your make-up’s caked on far too thick, it looks a pâte à choux.
Eye liner should be subtle, and not spackled on as goo.
You shouldn’t even try if that’s the best that you can do.
I contemplate you, mirror, with a disenchanted stare:
that forehead’s getting rather high; what happened to the hair?
As long as “getting older” means “improving,” I don’t care,
but who's this grey and wrinkled lackey you have standing there?