“She learned to walk again, but never fully recovered. She was incontinent and childish.”
She had sat at the Chancellor’s feet, a rival
to Eva Braun, highborn, blue-eyed, contrary
to the reds, dykes and faggots of Bloomsbury,
armed with only Campbell’s Flowering Rifle.
Surely she’d been guilty of high treason?
(Albion is a better place today,
a heaven for the black man and the gay!)
Nevertheless, this was not the reason
she chose not to renew her yearly lease,
weeping at the news of London’s choice.
(There would be a pearl-handled pistol’s noise
days after the end of unhardy peace.)
No, not the reason few recall her name,
or, afterwards, why she was not the same.