Pauline

Who will catch her moans, secrets spill like home brew, the song chills her bones, hair a screed of wheat, shines luminous but under curfew, its the old disease, lavender linen and Eau de Cologne, she whispers to a ravaged few, her feelings are never slow, a granny who sings for free, song is all the Blues, truth no concessionary, than a blonde field cloaked, with an early dew, her drink is whisky soaked, beats that sad old tune, down a public telephone, it won't make the news, or leave her ruined, a poet explodes.