POEM: The Woman Curler
Behold, she rises early,
She feeds her flock, and then
She grabs her faithful, trusty broom
And she's off to curl again.
The dishes? Leave them in the sink.
The work? She'll leave that too,
Because around this time of year
There are better things to do.
At parties she just wouldn't think
Of wearing something old.
She watches all her colours,
Keeps them simple, nothing bold.
Perhaps she owns a fine Dior,
She's keen on fashion’s way,
But take a look at Lulu
When she goes to curl today.
Her cap is black and white and red,
She wears Siwash thick
That's knitted up in brown and gold
and white and blue and brick.
Her pants are baggy round the knees,
The colours in them clash,
She looks just like a paratrooper
Who walked away from crash.
But one thing I have noticed;
If she's a little short on style,
I've never seen a woman curler
Who didn't wear a smile.
Just stand there at the rink door
And watch the girls go in,
And you will notice, buddy boy
They all wearing the same big grin.
They always have a warm hello
They’ve time to hear a joke.
They don't care if a fellow curler
Is filthy rich or broke.
They get a lot from curling
Be it championship or "flub".
God bless the woman curler
From the Woman's Curling Club.
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