A poem beginning, ‘April is the cruellest girl…’.
April is the cruellest girl,
A mean, obscene, conniving churl,
A trashy, imitation pearl
Whose sham outstrips her shine.
The Ponte Vecchio in spring
Was where, away on some wild fling,
I spent a fortune on a ring
Believing she’d be mine.
This done, before we journeyed home,
With sights to see and time to roam,
She slipped away, beneath the Dome
As slyly as a snake.
And so to cruel fate I bow:
She kept the ring but not the vow
And lives abroad in Florence now
With some Italian rake.
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