Golden fingertips, and silver
and pink,
And Flamboyant Red, they call it, I
think.
Shaping and scraping and massaging the
nails,
Then waxing it all in little plastic
pails.
There are ornaments and insets galore,
Some worn up high and some near the
floor,
For pedicures are in for M'Lady's toes,
And sometimes I wonder when they'll polish
her nose.
Brushes all sizes, and of course, scads of
files
From diamond dust to emery in neat little
piles.
There's the manicure lauded as the look
from the French,
Where the edges of nails are trimmed
straight as a bench.
From shiny to dull to the metallic
look,
And you can choose your style right out of
a book.
So you think this poem's a bit
sarcastic?
No, after all, let us be more
realistic,
Though the remover always makes my eyes
burn,
I can barely wait until it's my
turn.
