With her steaming hot coffee resting nearby, waiting it out on a dilapidated French magazine of rather affable sorts – the kind which will oft lend itself to images of pretty middle-aged naked ladies – she puckers on up her bee-stung red gloss lips and prepares to deliver an all too boisterous quip or ten
Only if we are so lucky
She places the flimsy tissue down by her trembling side and attempts to remember the very last time she was allowed to memorably shine
These people have seemingly been waiting in the sudden wings for her fate to play its jaw-dropping part all over again
A rather over-enthusiastic need to delicately tapestry then so very much as get to breathe her particular art into their almost everything
A fashioned black dress stressed and pressed above these immaculate green Louboutins high heels to set her serenely, all too resolute and beautifully apart
A singer standing terrifically steady and on something of a multicoloured wing and a deadpan prayer holding a heart of only gold
And how each somebody just knows it
These highly-strung lungs are of equal importance, been through the ringer and ready to set fire
Seems her Green Isle eyes will seal the Parisian deal – a potion sent upon and across the wild Atlantic Ocean

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