The drips on her nails say “busy today”
like the chips on the paintwork that she drives away.
She’s the porcelain princess who’s tougher than stone
with a soft-centred middle right down to the bone.

If you cross or transgress her she’ll smash you to bits
this girl is a tigress with a pole-dancer’s hips.
She’s learnt to be fearsome , she’s learnt to be curt
this way is far better, she’s harder to hurt.

She spits at the people who’re full of conceit
and she loathes the liars, those full of deceit.
See, once you’ve been bitten when expecting a kiss
the lesson you learn is: give love a miss.

But this hardness is wrapped in the green of an angel
that strides towards doors of the sick and unable
where she washes the needy, unseen by our eyes
and caresses the hands of the ready to die.

The mad, the unwanted, the babbling few,
the burdensome, the quarrelsome, the too sick to move.
She bites on her lip to snip off her feelings
as she doles out compassion and makes life have meaning.

Then slips into darkness with the turn of her key
and returns to her gremlin and slumps for TV
where, lulled by the warmth and fatigue of long days
she drifts off to sleep, it’s better that way.

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