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There lies inanimate a lady who lived within her character
		Who I found so ugly when her heart was going pitter-patter;
		Her character left no ornamental mark on earth as it was burlesque –
		But that was quite fair, relative to her attitude that was so grotesque.

		O, but yet what beauteousness is this that she shares with her death, –
		For never was she this ravishing prior to the loss of her breath;
		Her life was of hollow pride – and, I swear, her actions just as cold;
		That haplessly masqueraded her beauty and made her look just as old.
 
		Her personality was just as uninviting and bitter as was her heart,
		And those who unreservedly loathed her often called her a tart;
		She was not my foe, she was just not my type, my favourate – 
		The lady who made people sad and her lips which spoke of hate.
	
		She presented so ugly that even ugliness itself would deny her,
		And that wasn’t because she’d put no make-up or titivated her hair –
		But ‘twas because she was hoity-toity; her life was odd and queer.
		But that was faded by the sun of day, and her beauty now so sheer.

		Methinks for her, life was harsh – but I know not what she sought,
		Neither do I know what she lacked or what she thought;
		Notwithstanding, it matters not no more for this lady is now dead
		And there’s no need to ridicule her about her past like buttered bread.
	
		She looks extremely innocent and beautiful this lady I dare to say,
		Now that in her selfish and proud life death has found its way.

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