Over the hill

I’m over the hill? Honey, I own the hill,
Built a bar at the top and I’m drinking my fill.
Fifty and fierce with a devilish grin
I’ve seen your type, love, now let’s not pretend.

I’ve got mood swings and melons defying all bras,
One minute I’m Zen, next I’m flipping your car.
Don’t ghost me, sweet cheeks, I’ve buried three exes,
And still had the strength to send flirty texts.

Forget your six-pack—I want a man with a clue,
Who won’t cry if I snore or outdrink his crew.
Don’t ask for my “body count,” babe, I’ve lost track
But rest assured, I never gave refunds back.

I sag in some places, I ache when I bend,
But I’ve still got the power to ruin your weekend.
Don’t talk to me of candles or soft serenades
Light me a bonfire and hand me the spades.

I’ll flirt at the bar, then go home to my cat,
Block your number in minutes—been there, done that.
My standards are higher than your hairline, dear,
And my patience? Retired. Like your Tinder career.

So here’s to the midlife, the madness, the moans,
To the queens with opinions and unshaved zones.
If you can’t handle the sass, best walk on, my dove
I’ve got no time left to waste on half-love.