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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