This officious darling, too old
for me, with steel-eyed glances;
offers me a hand and
a Fabergé egg.

The cold lights of the Malverns
in winter are anthills.
In my heart, I decline, and go
to prowl before the world's river.

Scooping up vanity in my arms
I deposit the screaming bundle
on steaming bank, smooth leaf
and unpick iron links.

Soon his money's out
of the question and I r...

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