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In tatted articles of filigree
saunters lacy Queen Anne.
Slattern of the ditches,
your sisters
those pale doxies
swaying bicker faced
in the wind.
You are impudent
weedy wench,
low born chanteuse.
Clad in rural openwork
baring your white pantaloons shamelessly
beside the hedgerows.
No lady, not quality.
only a tame
carrot's cousin...
© Lea (Leaway56@aol.com)
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