The Wreck of She, could be a ship, <br />that has been cast upon the shore, <br />but alas she is not, she's part of the street <br />a fancy English whore <br />The Wreck of She, has moved around <br />from war time trenches. <br />to Hyde Park benches, <br />down quite back alleys, <br />and seaside chalets. <br />Yet she was always there <br />when Tom came to call <br />then off they would go, <br />and have a ball. <br />The Wreck of She, was just like a night owl. <br />Out at dusk, and home at dawn, <br />with grass on her back, <br />from the golf course lawn. <br />The Wreck of She, was past her sell by date, <br />when she was found <br />crawling in the gate, <br />she was dazed and battered <br />but to her it never mattered, <br />she had been there before <br />and she knew the score. <br />The Wreck of She was just an old cat. <br />A Queen of the night <br />who never got laid, on a fireside mat<br /><br />sylvia spencer<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-wreck-of-she/
