presenters.

Dark-lined eyes sunken into the stretched leather faces, scrolled upon them in harshly scrubbed lines are the withers of fifty summers,

Atop them sits medically attached fake lashes, ones they'll claim are of course their naturals with just a little mascara,

The scars left from the plastic surgeries are the most authentic and honest thing in the entire room as it's descended on by it's pompous and beloved, with more plasticine adorning them than they have blood within the vapid jackals,

So of course they're sure to hide it all, to remind themselves: don't smile too bright, you'll get a laugh line if you cackle!

Oh, and then, what else would you be, if not held in a designer dress, enveloped by it's tight bodyshaping caress?

If you didn't get a place at this show? To stand alongside ones who might as well be your clones, as for each other you all clap in empty awe, follow routines, bow and bellow,

All stood haughty on your dagger heels with coffin-shaped nails,

Doing all you can to turn back time and celebrate what little you've done with it so far,

Oh yes, darling, I'm 84 and the coffin's mine, but I've got a real great surgeon,

Could you believe I'm a day over 64 and my doctor said even now I'll still feel like a virgin?