Ballade At Thirty Five

This, no song of ingenue This, no ballad of innocence This, the rhyme of a lady who Followed ever her natural bents This, a solo of sapience This, a chantey of sophistry This, the sum of experiments I loved them 'til they loved me I loved them 'til they loved me I loved them 'til they loved me Decked in garments of sable hue Daubed with ashes of myriad Lents Wearing shower bouquets of rue Walk I ever in penitence Oft I roam, as my heart repents Through God's acres of memory Marking stones in my reverence I loved them 'til they loved me I loved them 'til they loved me I loved them 'til they loved me Pictures pa*s me in long review Marching columns of dead events I was tender and often true Ever a prey to coincidence Always knew I the consequence Always saw what the end would be We're as nature has made us hence I loved them 'til they loved me I loved them 'til they loved me I loved them 'til they loved me Princes, never I'd give offense Won't you think of me tenderly? You're my strength and my weakness, gents This, no song of ingenue This, no ballad of innocence This, the rhyme of a lady who