by Nick Gisburne
She finds it hard to recognise the man
A pile of stinking misery and dirt
She knows him as no other woman can
And understands the nature of his hurt
She loved him as a genius, a gent
The quintessential charmer, finely groomed
But now his days of elegance are spent
The portrait of perfection is consumed
And she was what defeated him, she knows
The love, the life, he knew could never die
His everything, a fresh and flawless rose
For him, a sacred truth. For her, a lie
By chance she finds him, begging in the street
But turns before their eyes can ever meet
