The Death of Lady Vane

"The death of a beautiful woman is,
Unqustionablly the most poetic
Topic in the world."
So why is it that when I died,
There was not a single mourner
To be heard?
Why were there no heralds, or criers?
Where were the weeping women,
Who wore nothing but black?
I was getting the feeling that I had been misled,
Or else things on Earth were becoming
Ridiculosly slack.
After all I was the most beautiful woman
Who ever graced the presence,
Of those poor, ugly peasants.
I would lie on a bed looking at my wonderous refletion,
Drinking fine wine, chocloates,
And various other presants.
I was the one, the only, the highest of the high,
I was the reason, the answer, the question even.
But no one even attended
My glourious funeral, where I was laid out in splendour,
With the exception of my solicitor,
His best interests defended
No doubt. All was quiet on that fateful day,
When my coffin was carried by riffraff
Past and indifferent crowd,
Who were only there because they were waiting,
To enter the market. They did not see,
They were in a shroud,
Must have been blind, I suppose, for they did not
Notice my beautiful casket.
Story of my life? Not at all,
There was time time when I was in my prime,
And I had the dresses a Queen would have envied,
That I would be the belle of every ball.
But oh, that time passed, too quickly it seems,
And I have been left to disintegrate,
And fall apart at the seams.
And now there is nobody left, To admire.
Or Mourn.