On a park bench, clothes all tattered.
Suitcase of bags, nothing else mattered.
Placid smile upon her face.
Far removed from the human race.
She once had been rich, a debutante.
Now even the change was almost gone.
Dresses and dances, parties to attend.
And hundreds of people she called friends.
They all were gone, just like the rest.
But her heart still longed, as it beat in her chest.
"I'll brush off the crumbs, and mend my blouse!"
"Find a new dress and find a new house!"
So off to the thrift shop, bags in hand.
With a smile on her face, "I'll entertain a man"
And with cardboard boxes, she built an estate.
"When the dance is over, I'll be in by eight".
Her head lay on bags she always had carried.
And a smile on her face like nothing else mattered.
In the estate of cardboard, slept the derelict debutante.
Dreaming of which trashcan held her croissant.
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