Stolen out of her era to live here,
Of hers but a dim reflection,
She dwells upon nothing
But her own small part in the world,
Hears no drumbeat but the one that propelled her,
Vigorous and thick-blooded,
Through her youth and, slower now with the years,
Lets her spite take hold,
Driving her to distraction –
She would have them all shot,
And civilisation put to rights!
From a harsher age she sets her sights
And fires off all her rages:
“Let the blacks go home!” she cries,
This petal-perfect, shrivelled woman
With the glaring eyes.
A bitter old lady who I once knew, born at the turn of the century, Victorian values and a seething hatred under a prissy exterior.
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