Of all the women I’ve loved and lost,
there’s one if I could I’d still court her.
It was Julie, brown hair, brown eyes, star-crossed–
for she suffered from Multiple Personality Disorder.
When we went separate ways, I waved good-bye
to not just one woman, but amors by the dozen.
She was one of many who caught my eye,
like a big family with distant cousins.
One day she’d be sloppy, the next morning quite neat.
On Monday dyspeptic, on Tuesday quite sweet.
She was Irish, and English, and Turkish, and French,
a prim bluestocking, then a bawdy wench.
She’d speak in a whisper like a covert spy,
then boom out a tune like a daft torch singer.
I needn’t sneak ‘round to a girl on the sly,
she was one of a crowd of dead ringers.
I miss her especially whenever I eat out,
I confess that I used her as a crutch.
It’s a hell of a lot cheaper, there is no doubt,
to split the bill twenty ways when you go Dutch.