She came from a tropical island,
Dark skin and darker hair.
In my head, she was Jeanne Duval,
And I was Baudelaire.

I wrote her poetry every day,
To less than rave reviews,
"It's really not my kinda ting",
Apologised my muse.

Suffice to say, it didn't last,
Though it lasted for a time.
And I burned that final sonnet,
That I couldn't get to rhyme.