Diane

Diane, Diane.
With locks of golden blonde,
With cheeks of rosy red,
I’m vain you’ve come and gone.

Diane, my sweet;
I long to learn and know,
Why it’s me who’s sitting here again,
And why you had to go.

Diane, with wings of white;
I sit again tonight,
Asking–begging–please, my friend,
Can I make this right?

Diane, I know I can’t.
I’m doing it right now.
I told your mom that this would end,
And I would put this bottle down.

Diane, so naive;
To dance across the road.
Maybe off to meet a friend,
Maybe trying to get home.

Diane, you angel;
Your beauty makes me cry.
Smiling until the very end,
I’m a shell now: an aside.

Diane, I’m sorry;
Because I should have known.
To call a cab or ask a friend,
To safely bring me home.

Diane, you fool;
Why did you choose that night,
To make sure you would wear black again,
And never be alright?

Diane, you demon;
I just want to go home.
I do not want to pretend,
When I know it isn’t so.

Diane, you bitch;
This was all your fault.
And now you’re trapped inside my head,
Like a spider in a vault.

Diane, you ghost;
You’ve simply done me wrong.
Now you’re under ground and dead,
And I just keep drinking all day long.


(Image Credit)

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