Violet misplaced her innocence
parked in bluebells
on the backseat of a Chrysler
Sunbeam. Clive, was his name.
Just as gypsy Petulengro read,
they walked out in March,
found the road to love
in April and, when she said
he may, they went bar t'at.
A passing duck laced his boots
sensing worms. As the blossom
of passion steamed her glasses
she smelt of the spring.
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