Too Dior

Mon cher, you're too Dior,

you're rose-hip aftershave

you're sore and shivering knees

you're 'please' I'm sure, my sweet

in shorts the colour of smog-bred stone.

Where are your wrinkle-linen hands,

carvings, work-won marrow shavings?

Come back to cast another time,

darling,

we always call.

Mr Jackfruit-in-an-Ajax-shirt,

we've seen your kind before,

Sir Standing-crooked-in-a-scarf,

bent double by your writing stool,

between your crop-top-Ts, medallion chains,

mon cher,

you're too Dior,

you're just not what we're looking for.