The handbag is a rare delight, it’s like Aladdin’s cave,
All sorts of things are hidden there, that females like to save,
It’s black and big and heavy, with a nice long shoulder strap,
Its weighted down with odds and sods and other stuff like that.
But the lady finds just what she wants deep down amongst her treasure,
Of keys and pins and leg hair wax and a metric rule for measure,
The remnants of forgotten ills with aspirins held so dear,
Birth control and other pills with labels quite unclear.
Calorie counters, cotton buds, old lottery tickets too,
Handkerchiefs and white tissues for visiting the loo,
A book of stamps, a tube of glue, letters from I don’t know who,
Horoscopes with personal star, petrol vouchers for the car.
Perfume loaded by the box, knitting needles, pairs of socks,
Bank statements and counterfoils, sachet samples, body oils,
Cassette tapes and eye mascara, postcards from old Connamara
Itineraries for keep-fit classes, lipstick and a pair of glasses,
Emery boards, a pot of Vic, silver tweezers, half a brick,
Screwdriver, spanners, ball of wool, ancient notebook partly full,
Bristle brush for long tresses, photographs and addresses,
Polo mints and a mobile phone just in case they stray from home.
Cheque book stubs, leather gloves, insect spray for the shrubs,
Driving licence, bingo card, cuttings from the paper,
Favourite verse, loaded purse and a windscreen scraper,
Credit cards, safety razor, golden buttons off a blazer.
But best of all it is a friend, that’s with them every day,
Slung upon the shoulder in a casual way,
And don’t forget it is a club – not of the member kind,
But the bag itself when wielded right could change a mugger’s mind. ~Bridget Patrick