Lucinda River

Sweet Lucinda River laid her body on the bed, And gave herself quite freely to the soldiers queued outside, Such philanthropic womanhood, both cash and charity, That they might have a taste of life before they went and died. Her photograph in sepia shades is bound in leather now, Or crinkled skin of crocodile upon the mustard field, Discolouring with drying blood in falls of rain and snow, Imaginary sweetheart, her persona unrevealed. Sweet Lucinda River cried for all the callow dead, Their faces swam before her eyes as tears turned them raw, She made them into men more than the army ever did, A taste of life before they died, what man could ask for more? Might bleeding hearts condemn her as a moral reprobate, Unknowing of the grief she hid or life she had to live, Don't eulogies and graveyard speech seem hollow by compare, When sweet Lucinda River gave them all she had to give?