Mellifluous days that harmonise in hues,
If it weren't for her screams they'd be beautiful,
Nil could but walk an inch in her shoes,

Feelings so ineffable she misconstrues,
When will she learn that she needs to be merciful?
Despite the tragedy, a series of revues,

She feels a hiraeth to deeply bemuse,
A home that never was and so she is woeful,
Lest turns to the bottle and downs the chartreuse,

Thus she shall awaken when the day renews,
Full of hate but too tired to be revengeful,
The epoch of her failure brought on by the blues,

Craving the limerance that others enthuse,
Alas! it seems sincere that she is doleful,
That mocking kind of sorrow she tends to misuse,

Nothing more illicit than ego to refuse,
To dote on herself would simply be shameful,
Would leave behind ephemeral residues,
Nil could but walk an inch in her shoes