Curly red hair and fond of knee-high boots

She hated those legs.

That's how I remember her,

Something else too.

Appointed by the court,

The poor girl did her best to help me and

Even though she failed miserably

We became an item

 

Her life had been worse than mine

Self-esteem pilfered by

Childhood trauma

I wondered how she kept going,

I would ask:

"In that state how the hell can you help anyone in trouble?"

Then she would cry again

She could'nt help herself.

You can enquire what I did to help but

I had problems of my own

 

Barley-wine was her tipple.

She nearly turned me into an alcoholic before

They caught her in an off-license taking six bottles when

A displinary panel put paid to her career.

The last I heard she was sleeping rough.

She left her mark on me as

Currently on parole again

I've never quite dried out