Miss Hadrian the Divine


I was tres tired, simply worn out—
After years and years of trashy

Hope deferred, loneliness and the
Awful pain of unrewarded gay toil

I took everything as nothing more—
Than a personal miserable affront

I was no stranger to mental fatigue—
But corporeal anguish was simply

Much too much for my delicate ego—
The horror of all the world’s creepazoids

I tried to write but dazed by a tacky—
Torrent of ideas I’d find myself dizzy

Meandering in a maze of words to—
The point of sheer utter exhaustion

I’d lose the thread of an argument—
My pen remaining immobile for hours

Sitting here in my low armchair with—
Its shabby brocade, dull-mauve & green

My capacity for writing lovely poetry—
Is being constricted by the times

Old legitimate monarchies are rather—
Everywhere declining & so am I, my dear

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