Thursday, 30 April 2015


According to people, she did life all wrong,

Ever out of harmony, she sang her own song,

Up with the birds she rose, each silvery dawn,

She would dress to kill, just to greet each morn,

She was her own woman.


Perfumed in opium, at the dawn of each new day,

Great chunky earrings from her lobes would sway,

Rings upon each finger & blooms within her hair,

People, at her, would merely point rudely & stare,

She was her own woman.


She would don her pyjamas, at every stroke of noon,

Saying, “I have no bloody time to wait for the moon”,

A glass of wine in one hand & her broom in the other,

She´d dance to the blues, singing, “Who needs a lover?”

She was her own woman.


She would sit under trees, upon shady park benches,

Reading poetry to birds, about pirates & bad wenches,

Her hair dyed violet & lips daubed in bright scarlet red,

A woman who lived in her dreams, with no need to wed,

She was her own woman.

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