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1997, She’s gone



On Sunday, August 31st, tragedy.

You came to our room, waking me.

"Diana is dead."

You said

Prince Charles is on his way to France.

Why are you giving me that sideways glance?


On Monday, September 1st, "Let's talk."

We're over. Love has walked

This is the end.

Let's just be friends.

In London, there's a one-minute silence.

Here, never-ending silent defiance.


On Tuesday, September 2nd, flags half-mast,

I thought our love affair would last.

For you, a new love has started.

The world and I are left brokenhearted.

Leaving us makes little sense.

You'll always be regarded, past tense.


On Wednesday, September 3rd, a new home,

An island or a first-floor flat alone,

You'll soon be gone,

It seems so wrong.

We wait, whiling away the hours.

Some, not me, say it best with flowers.


On Thursday, September 4th, we're over.

Sadness lingers; you're rolling in clover.

Drowning sorrows briskly

Double rocks and Whisky,

Everyone is critical of the press.

They wrote too much; they should have written less.


On Friday, September 5th, the Queen imparts

"What I say to you now, I say from my heart."

With your broadcast,

Succinctly asked

Could you wash your clothes clean?

In what was our washing machine,


On Saturday, September 6th, the final scoot

A million people lined the coffin’s route.

We view TV from different houses.

You and I are now separate spouses.

I soon realized what was going on.

The Princess of my heart had gone.

.


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