She still walks the streets that moulded the
dimples in her smile,
the streets that had her sing a tale song
tailored with a forged rhyme.
She's fond of the trees that cater a platter
of shade towards her mile,
a mile that has so many hearts of weary
travellers on her pile.
What art is she?
She shares a splif with the dukes of our
And walk into fortresses to dine with the
lords we spite.
She feeds on reasoning of fouled grey
how come, how should, how can: she