The wedding ring is sham. The ‘Mrs’ shallow courtesy.
Poor thing she never will be bride as anyone can see.
Ungainly figure, features making plain that wit’s not there
Yet here she is near-time with child and under care.
I’m wiring fire alarms, she’s kenned my sympathetic ears
And pours into them constantly her catalogue of fears.
The staff puts poison in her food. There’s cameras in the roof
To spy upon her. “ Even in the toilets!” She claims proof.
The nurses lie and steal her things and there’s conspiracy
To treat her with new unproved drugs experimentally.
This harried creature fights to keep a cruel world at bay.
I listen–I am moved–but at a loss. What can I say?
Somehow the other day the Dutch came up. That gave her start.
“This one’s a Dutchman’s. Said he loved me, That I’d won his heart
And—then he left.” Her desolate despair aroused my pity
And my anger. Scum!! To plunder this unguarded city.
Yet many men have passed that way. “Mum says, ‘Make this the last.’”
I’ve probed and found she’s been here every year these three years past
Victim of those who selfishly wrest pleasure where they can,
Feigning love. At times I almost loathe my fellow man.