Typist

The sixties saw her mini-skirted,
Beatle-mad and blonde. She flirted
With the multi-coloured shirted
Hip young dudes, to dope converted.

Now her breasts have lost their bouncing
Innocence. She's cool, not flouncing.
Tall and thin and trouser-suited,
Henna-haired and leather-booted.

The typist of the last decade
Was never typecast, born not made,
Her keyboard cast in greenest jade,
With jewelled keys, ribbons of braid.

But now she's full of seventies' sense,
Losing pounds and counting pence,
A house in Kent as recompense.
Is she serene or is she tense?

Or is she dreaming while she's typing,
Crashing keys with icy rage?
The noise is like a bird's wings breaking,
Beating on its gilded cage.