She wasn’t born in Sicily
where Theo’s dole was spent and
clipped;
Liz came to life in Battersea.
Toffs-over-Thames was Wilde’s see.
Worn soles clapped cobbles when she
skipped;
she wasn’t born in Sicily.
By soot-clogged brick near the
stunted tree
and snot-nosed kids was where she
tripped;
Liz came to life in Battersea.
Raising nine, no time was free
to mourn the last; birth crammed his
crypt.
She wasn’t born in Sicily.
Old age cramped. Her treat was tea
in the park’s café, her cup
tight-gripped;
Liz came to life in Battersea.
No moment flared when she wished to
flee
the life from which her soul was
ripped.
She wasn’t born in Sicily;
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