Any Ol' Excuse

Sorry, I'm on the rag. Sorry I'm on the 'pon. Sorry this napkin is both sanitary and feminine, can I get a new one? Sorry. It is like a doily atop a vanity, a lace shawl tossed over a Singer sewing table when it is not in use. It is never in use. Neither am I. Use-less, rope chafing at the pyre, rocks hem-sewn, petticoat poofed (can't run), ballet bones crushed into gelatin (can't walk). I'll never win. I forfeit. I can't tell my north from my south, my padre from my espíritu santo. This looks like a Cinderella story, but I already told you what kind of shoes I'm wearing, I already told you I'm sitting this round out.