They hung her paintings in the old people’s home Everyone was kind, it made her smile Her and Picasso were kin for a while She was good at perspective and shading and stuff She was good with colour, but it wasn’t enough She died alone But her pictures were shown They talked about it for a year or two How she danced and she sketched And had her name on the posters She had her name on her room so she wouldn’t get lost Surrounded by dementia, that was the cost She didn’t do love, that had got lost To duty and convention And did I mention The War The Second World one, that is A picture painted by a friend Hangs in the corner of one man’s room He sometimes calls her name aloud He thinks of his wife He thinks of his wife ***************