In my pyjamas I sit and ponder
where and how my life went asunder
a Sunday morn belies my mood
my world is completely screwed.
An old broad like me
should not feel this way
a future to not foresee
a blind witch led astray.
Racing to the wild blue younder
my heart burns with thunder
on the sea along the latitude
or maybe just the longitude
I have to accept the potpourri
of languedoc or beaujoulais
wines - champagne - my esprit
bubbles and wittles away.
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