a poem about decline

sweetheart
soon instead of
string pants you will have 
mulch and mould on your ass
you feel that the old is going by
has gone by
wax is death
in a small little cute pink bottle
you still try to put on your legs
to look like a queen
a drag queen I would say
stop hurting yourself
you cannot help it
and no matter how much makeup
you will put on the wrinkled face of yours
the wrinkles will be there
and the reek of antiquity
sticks to you like a leech
the new is still not there
there's only you
the four walls
and a poem about decline