Annabelle Hathaway

Annabelle Hathaway
from XX
6/18/2009
By Me

Annabelle Hathaway
Is that girl I met one bright blue day.
She was a brunette that lived by the bay.
At the same time, noon, every day
Under the shining ray
She lustfully or lovingly lay
In the beach by the bay.
Like a vampire she stocked her prey
In the tender night not day.
With every guy Annabelle hath a way.
‘Till that one risqué
Summer, where she met that Spanish hombre
Who spoke of Italians like Dante.
Annabelle loved the Spaniard’s wordplay
As poetry was his forte.
She had met the Spaniard at an artist’s soiree
For a newly established painter’s birthday.
But as Sunday became Saturday
The Spaniard grew weary of her superficial horseplay
For Annabelle had a nice Spanish dolce
On her arm, and loved spreading gossip and hearsay
Of the adventures with the artist, but his mood turned to gray
Annabelle was not a muse and weighed
His heart and hand down in disarray.
And that my friend is the gay day
With that inevitable fray
Where Annabelle did not hath her way.