Vivienne wriggled restless draped in a veil of veneer,
She could never pass the stage of sleep same as her street number three.
“Our cycles are synchronized”, so the moon she did fear.

Their marriage froze frigid until deliquescing at month three,
Her lunacy at low tide leaked on her ****** red bed sheet,
Like the snow that would thaw, end of winter in ’33.

As a muse Viv was perfect, but the man suffered defeat,
With her parent’s heirs to riches, resentment followed suit.

Could it have been Dr. Huntington she inherited? Viv was swiftly swept off her feet.

The white walls met her head like a drum beating mute,
As in the fourth circle, Pluto, dressed in a white coat shocked her brain.

Across town Tom was receiving an award, celebrating with the astute.

“*Viv ruined him as a man, though quite the poet he became”,
For if it weren’t for Vivienne, Tom would have acquired far inferior fame.

_TRF