The Wreck Of She Poem by sylvia spencer

The Wreck of She, could be a ship,
that has been cast upon the shore,
but alas she is not, she's part of the street
a fancy English whore
The Wreck of She, has moved around
from war time trenches.
to Hyde Park benches,
down quite back alleys,
and seaside chalets.
Yet she was always there
when Tom came to call
then off they would go,
and have a ball.
The Wreck of She, was just like a night owl.
Out at dusk, and home at dawn,
with grass on her back,
from the golf course lawn.
The Wreck of She, was past her sell by date,
when she was found
crawling in the gate,
she was dazed and battered
but to her it never mattered,
she had been there before
and she knew the score.
The Wreck of She was just an old cat.
A Queen of the night
who never got laid, on a fireside mat