She was a rose among thorns,
with the poise of a socialite,
the spring that summer mourns,
the dulcet rays of dawn’s first light.
She was a working class princess,
a faithful sister and daughter,
a paragon of thoughtfulness—
steady, come hell or high water.
But the opposite sex was her undoing
with their cigars and their drinking,
their chewing and misconstruing,
their habitual non-thinking.
Marriage—a miserable morass—
was the final blow, the coup de grâce.
Robert Forrey
