~~~ Rememember When ....?~~~
~ Remember When He Made You Feel Beautiful? ~
A few lyrical lines about a woman who has just received the news about the death of her first boyfriend, then stumbles upon her gilded photograph amongst the personal effects of his glove compartment.
Coasting drunk trolley down a wined market aisle,
Yet no one turns round for your sweet sexy smile;
Age overtook, like a cruel reiving rook,
Now you're sparring with time's no-good thieving old crook.
Fumbling a dime for your gone Jukebox hero;
Committed no crime in a town so sub-zero.
Sailing for dreams with your fountain-pen honed,
Metal udder, your rudder, destination unknown.
Middle-class white girl who sought for her prince,
Now your hair's purple rinse, home surrounded by chintz;
With a well-tailored lawn, hubby turned to a fawn,
Home-boy's falling apart as he's gorging your Quorn.
Now where did slick go, rebel you couldn't bag,
Is he smoking a fag; still ride leather-clad?
Swain kicked up the dust when he moved like a gust,
Cruising who knows now where, hard man without a care.
Does your vacancy still wait in his dark Trans-Am chair,
Would he take you up there to a place you don't dare,
If you left well behind all the toil and the grind,
Of a secondary life playing mother to strife?
Yet the glint in your eye, no, will never say die,
And the throb in your heart is still playing its part
At the sound of that name and his bronze-mounted frame,
Packing twin fists of steel, aye, true kisses unreal,
Amidst shudders and squeal when he made you his meal,
As he crashed you through oceans your body could feel.
Bereaved autumn sighs knew the end that was nigh,
For a true-hearted man who could fly;
Though he made baby cry like a new April sky,
For he rode t'ward his sunset ne'er saying goodbye.
" What creature beeth woman but a fluttering Harte,
Which dost throb in quiescence of man's innermost part?
Pray, what boasteth madame if not work of Thine art,
Whose true vanishing point is her lover's daubed heart?
Yea, Jerusalem eyne bridle Romanesque bow,
Lo, Victorian walnuts mount Narnia snow;
Whereth moondusted crowlights greet dawn's broken tinge,
That caress gentle flecks from her sunlit crowned fringe."