Friday, 15 May 2015


She was supremely beautiful, aloof & elegant to boot,

Her men weren´t gents, unless garbed in bespoke suit,

She was mantled in silk, spun by hands upon fine looms,

Her aura wafting upon the trail, of her exotic perfumes,

She was a Lady.


She would ride only in a Bentley or in silver Rolls Royce,

Her world was pearled oyster; she was spoilt for choice,

She dined on caviar, truffles & pink whelks without skins,

She was seen in chic bistros, quaffing champagne & Pimms,

She was a Lady.


Her genes were refined, not just blue-denim on buttocks,

Suffering no fools gladly, of bumpkin, yokel nor lummox,

She had no time for lingo banal, nor for anything profane,

Looking down her long nose, with utter scorn & disdain,

She was a Lady.


Her come-uppance arrived, with the passing of time,

With her first graying hair & that first wrinkled line,

She looked into cruel mirror, at her image in frame,

“In the end”, she said, “We are all, really the same,”

She was a Lady.

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