Thirty three

Oh the misfortunes of a woman
In her thirty third year,
Like the crust of a mango pie, delicious
But now ripe, slightly sour.
To change the tide in the run-up to
The deathly hour, the decay,
Gearing up for the marathon, the bitter
Truth making forth the way.
Now, to change tracks; Now, to become
What the twenties couldn't promise,
In the final analysis when you do the sum
The total fortune of this woman is extant.
She knows her lines from her vices
That line her muscles, faith departed,
She knows she lacks now in certain spices,
But now more willing to give than when she started;
She's no more a kitten: abominable for her to purr,
But in a nightclub she could still evoke a stir,
Her twinkle, her wrinkle and her forty different  shoes
Are all for the long journey ahead, affecting the blues.
She knows more Now, but humility has set in,
She understands no vow is all for the asking;
More determined in the promises she makes,
She's more a woman, now, no more just a busty damsel.