Am I perhaps the Lady of Shalott
Like thousands of other women? No, I'm not
For I'm not cursed like her, I'm just forgot.
For me there is no magic Camelot
For me no compliments from Lancelot
Old age is now my curse, my wretched lot
A twisted wrinkled body's all I've got.
Away those thoughts: a pile of stupid rot!
I've still a brain; I'll mouse the exact spot
Where all the world is googled with a dot;
Cast off sick shadows now: erase the lot!
Block out the negativity, and blot
Those feelings of self-pity; and unknot
My curse; and be the Lady on the Trot.
