There’s a whole generation

Of women, of a certain age,

Who took the poem about

Wearing purple when you’re old

A little too seriously.

The liberation of being able

To dress in a less demure fashion

Is muted, when every woman

On the bus or in the doctor’s

Wears purple pants or coats

Or both. It’s so extreme at times

That they’re difficult to distinguish;

A sea of mauves and lilacs,

Heady with talcum powder and Halls

Bursts from the bus to the pavements.

Any waiting grandchild might not

find their Grammy in the purple waves.

When I am old, I shall wear

Whatever I please, which is,

I think, what the original poem

Was saying, quite clearly.