From the native girls, I sought comfort

After having sailed all the seven seas

Yet back when I first cast my eyes on Matilda

Her delicacy dropped me to my knees


Of course, that was so long ago now

The year 1925

But my time with the lovely Matilda

Was the only time I felt truly alive


I courted, wined and dined her

From Saigon to old Mandalay

On horseback across the Silk Road

Returning to Famagusta Bay


From there we headed to Paris

By Orient Express that is plain

And a garret we shared overlooking

That river of romance, The River Seine


While I took to writing and drinking

She carved out for herself a career

Singing the blues in Montmartre nightclubs

1925 oh what a year


Yet my life was one downhill slalom

Hardly fulfilling my lover’s needs

For Matilda was out singing the blues all hours

In her trademark costume of just golden beads


That is when I became somewhat jealous

Of the gentlemen friends she acquired

With me lost in my cups most times

And as a bereft writer no longer inspired


She left me of course for another

A diplomat from Washington DC

Together they crossed the Atlantic

Dearest Matilda was thus free of me


Over time the wound never healed

Although I remained a man of dubious deeds

So, I traced the path that she had travelled

And strangled her with her own golden beads


I made haste for the Tropic of Cancer

Crossed the Arabian Sea

Carved out a new life in Chittagong

But of Matilda I was never free


But hey, I’m not complaining

For the last sixty years I’ve been blessed

With a cast of much younger nubile lovers

Prepared to ‘favour’ a ripe old gentleman in a string vest!




  1. Oh, what a glorious but sad tale. Matilda clearly a vamp, but did you have to take matters into your own hands, the beads that is.

      1. They are busy little elves traipsing about messing up the reader and crashing the system. Word Press…grrrrr.

      1. My new car arrived from Romania just yesterday (true) and I know Svetlana worked on the production line at the factory. I am in love with the car, just knowing she touched it.

    1. Cheers Peter. I well recall my mother – when I was in 6th form – decided to buy me string vests. My how the others laughed! ‘Street cred’ wasn’t a phrase back then, yet what little I had, I lost.

      1. All I will say on the matter was ‘drip-dry’ nylon shirts. My mother, hooked upon the prospect of no ironing! Boy did I stink, trapped within the bastard things.

    1. Odd that…I must have broken my golden rule that in any and all I write, serious or silly, the gal must win out, yet here I am killing poor Matilda! I shall have to rectify this grave omission in a follow-up!

      1. A golden rule is a golden rule…the gals must win. It sounds like I’m boasting, when I don’t mean to, yet when running my business equal pay was paramount.

      2. That’s wonderful to hear, Mike. And no, I don’t think it’s boasting. It’s also refreshing to see a male author writing about women who have actual personalities. I don’t want to tell you how many times I’ve seen so-called serious writers portraying token female characters who do nothing for the plot and have all the personality of a cardboard cutout.

      3. Technically I’m off WP until after Christmas. Then I remembered you had commented and felt it terrible bad form not to have replied. Let me say Matilda is all powerful once more. I shall post her verse not too long after the break. Have a great Christmas, Carolee.

  2. Oh no, poor Matilda! Strangled by the only dress she has. Some people are unforgettable, you know, no matter what you do.
    I do hope that string vest’s keeping you fresh! Reminds me of Sting 😀 !!!!

      1. So bad…in one of those shirts on a hot summers day at school I collapsed in a heap. My mother insisted it couldn’t possibly be the nylon shirt that overheated me…even then I knew better!

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