Catwalk

Elegant dames with elegant frames,
Compete winning well at comparison games.
Super their womanly wiles and 'superer' styles,
But alas a percentage are pitted with piles.
Sadly sayeth certain statistics,
and liable are not my linguistics: it’s meddling medical mystics.
A terrible truth as they cavort across their catwalks,
Their long, languid and luscious stalks.
Slightly squinting, pouting and pursing,
As if lemons they were nursing,
but nay never cursing, their styles.
Then in mince boys, many with manly ploys;
A menagerie of masculine toys.
Nay reader, please pardon my pitch which reads a little rich.
My only aim is rhyme, well most of the time.
Alas a cruel canvas I have carved,
Of dear darling devas often half-starved.
Pinnacles are many of purest poetry:
Models made vivacious like the mannequins of Versailles.
Money pa!
It can neither purloin nor purchase, except for a paltry price.
The admission fee.
Then wilfully do wander wicked little wags,
Doleful with doldrums and scarred schoolbags.
But soon fascinated each, suddenly a joy to teach.
And with surfaces their sticky fingers seldom suffer.
Considerate of cracks, crevices and riveting ravines,
Wonderful works that knew no machines.
An apogee of art that polished pile,
Rubbed ruthlessly with a finishing file.