Gypsy blood coursed through her veins.
With head held high, she owned her reins...
rambled, bound by no man's chains...
And Betty was her name.
A misnomer of the sweetest grace...
She wandered, thus, from place to place.
Boxcars were her ballroom chase
and where she earned her fame.
She wore no fear beneath her rags,
would have no part of shallow tags,
sang no song and waved no flags...
Yet, Betty was some dame.
She commanded grudge respect
With raven mane and eyes bedecked...
Entrancing all beyond suspect,
to play bewitching game.
With flash of eye and sway of hip
few words would cross her sensual lip
yet, all that found her fingertip
would char from Betty's flame.
She owned her world, would yield to none,
dined on tea and Sally Lunn,
challenged all, yet held no gun...
a gal that none could tame.
Ballads tell her wily tale...
of how, by storm, she took the rail,
in pursuit of her Holy Grail...
And none remained the same.
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