French but with a Manc accent she said

I’d say just French, quite French

But we called her the Belgian Princess

Im not sure why

She called a mouse a mice

And when she was hungry she was rayvenous

She nurtured waifs and strays

Looked at  friends 

with a magnifying lens

Never one to mince her words

And after the morphine she’d just speak her mind

She was brutally honest but underneath kind

But ultimately 

She was the waif and stray

She died in a private and personal way

Her colourful life forgotten in the dread of it all

Whats left of her sparkle is locked up inside me

I wanted to grow old together you see 

To wear purple and smoke a joint in the street

And run through the trees in joyful bare feet

And sit on the pavement sharing our lives

But she didn’t survive

To even reach 50

And now I am 60 

J’aimerais que tu sois ici