gubster's Diaryland
Diary
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the Locket - John Montague
Sing a last song for the lady who has gone, fertile source of guilt and pain. The worst birth in the annals of Brooklyn, that was my cue to come on, my first claim to fame.
Naturally, she longed for a girl, and all my infant curls of brown couldn�t excuse my double blunder coming out the wrong sex, and the wrong way around. Not readily forgiven, So you never nursed me and when all my father�s songs couldn�t sweeten the lack of money, �when poverty comes throught the door love flies up your chimney�, your favourite saying, Then you gave me away, might never have known me, if I had not cycled down to court you like a young man, teasingly untying your apron, drinking by the fire, yarning Of your wild, young days which didn�t last long, for you, lovely Molly, the belle of your small town, landed up mournful and chill as the constant rain that lashes it wound into your cocoon of pain. Standing in that same hallway, �Don�t come again.� you say, roughly, �I start to get fond of you, John, and then you are up and gone�; the harsh logic of a forlorn woman resigned to being alone. And still, mysterious blessing, I never knew, until you were gone, that, always around your neck you wore an oval locket with an old picture in it, of a child in Brooklyn.
10:45 a.m. - 2010-07-30
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