This is yet another piece that went on its own path from my mind to the keyboard. Poor, sweet Polly-Anne…what did she do to deserve such a fate?
I have no idea. But please, think of her fondly, and I hope you like my tale of her.

She’s never alone, sweet Polly-Anne,
The voice in her head never leaves;
Accusing and cruel,
With a cast iron rule,
A presence in mind,
That’s not often kind,
It colours the life that she leads.

She dances alone, does Polly-Anne,
To music that only she hears;
The strings of a harp,
That pluck at her heart,
The beat of a drum,
That makes her bones hum,
The voice of the crowd always cheers.

She’s wanted by all, dear Polly-Anne,
But no one will ever get close;
She passes like spring,
Or a bird on the wing,
Not staying too long,
Like summer she’s gone,
But in winter I miss her most.

No longer with us, poor Polly-Anne,
Too gentle for world such as this;
She swallowed her fill,
From one box of pills,
And went to her rest,
No beat in her chest,
I bid her goodbye with a kiss.


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