in a wheelchair now, she's

a shadow of her history,

crippled us with lust in

the pomp of her mystery

 

to out-patients in my taxi,

whispers: "is it you Fred?"

of times when I loved her

immortal, not half-dead

 

dropped me for a broker

always cute and naughty,

oozed sex, a Lana Turner

mercenary and haughty

 

begs me to take her to bed,

purely for old time's sake

I lay her down and get in,

she can barely stay awake

 

legs flop, cold and waxy

filled her nappy with poo,

woke up, crying again,

I dont know what to do