Nowhere Near Hudson’s Bay

Toggle me up on one last vanity flight half drunk on a screw-top frizzante. It takes a hell of a lot more to get me here than it did when I had beauty, boys when bedding me was the easy way to know me. Don’t tuck me in so tight. I’m not your grandma. This rough blanket its green red yellow indigo stripes I traded for a perfectly warm beaver pelt. Fly me once more over my disloyal youth and its hangdog slavering over men whom age has de-sexed right along with me. They broadcast impotent outrage from aluminum tablets. I collect speculums with Bakelite handles arranging them by size though it no longer matters.