Chardonnay Smith donated a pound
And to her eternal delight,
Won the coveted ticket to a celebrity dinner
On the following Saturday night.
What should she wear? Chardonnay mused
And flicked through her wardrobe in despair.
“I’ll make you the best dress there’s ever been”
Said Mum, opening a glossy magazine.
There on the page stood Skylar Simmonds
In a backless, halter neck gown plus pout.
“I’ll make you one of those”, said Mum,
“But we’d better make sure your boobs don’t fall out.”
In a trice the dress was sewn and stitched
And poured onto Chardonnay’s bulges.
Some sellotape ensured that neither breast
Would want to venture out, either east or west.
Off to Westminster Chardonnay went
In the dress made up by her mum.
There to greet her were a bunch of MPs.
One of them pinched her bum.
“Hey! You!” Chardonnay screamed.
“Who do you think you are?”
With her swift knee in his groin, the MP was shrivelled.
But the reinforcing sellotape had become unravelled.
Two breasts in opposite directions were sent,
To the joy of the ‘honourable’ members of parliament.
One MP’s hand at once started to wander,
Until Chardonnay kicked him with a swift up and under.
Skylar Simmonds ran over to see
Why there was such a calamity.
Chardonnay Smith stood victorious at the bar,
In a dress exactly the same as that of Skylar.
“I thought I had the only gown.”
Sighed Skylar. “It cost me three thousand pounds.”
Chardonnay smiled and stayed dumb.
The dress cost her nothing. It was made by her mum.
“Have some coke.” Said Skylar and pointed
To where some rolled up fifty pound notes were waiting.
“No thanks.” Said Chardonnay. “I wish I’d never roamed.
So much for celebrities, I’d rather go home.”