I see her weekday mornings waiting at

  The station for her train to Waterloo. 

She either stands with coffee or is sat

  Across from me, on platform number two.

I can’t not look at her, and nor could you.

  Though neither pretty nor grotesquely fat

She makes for quite a mesmerising view,

  That woman in the fucking stupid hat.

Her headgear makes her look like such a prat;   

  It’s furry and (I kid you not) bright blue

With little pointy ears just like a cat-

  The sort of thing that most of us outgrew

Along with Stickle Bricks and ‘peek-a-boo’.

  If braver I would go and tell her flat 

Her millinery's pros are very few, 

  That woman in the fucking stupid hat. 


But would she care I thought it horrid tat?

  Would giving her a thorough talking to

Do much except provoke a nasty spat? 

  I doubt I'd have a chance of getting through, 

And so this poor, misguided ingénue

  Will have to keep on going out like that. 

I pity her. She doesn't have a clue,

  That woman in the fucking stupid hat.




Prince Charming, are you likely to pursue

  A Cinderella titfered like a twat?

Would any self-respecting geezer screw

  That woman in the fucking stupid hat?

The Ballade of the Woman in the Fucking Stupid Hat