Betrayal

Every day was spent

Either sitting in

Or walking around

Parisienne streets or La Jardin

De Luxembourg.

Why was for all plain to see –

He’d given his heart

And all his soul

As one sees in impressionist art,

To a young jolie mademoiselle.

Why, then is he sad?

If I were him

(And oh to be)

I’d be swinging limb to limb

From all the blossoming trees.

Now, I’m afraid to say

Things for him have gone wrong

His young lady

Has on a journey so long –

Gone across to Angleterre.

And now in England

Things don’t last.

An English lad turns up.

Our hero’s memory fades so fast

As to someone else she’s making love.

Our poor friend is lost

All that’s left is a dream

Turned sour

And now it does seem

That there is no such thing as true love.

17^th July 1991, West Ealing, London, England.

-Richard