‘The girl with red hair,’ he said to his love,
And she smiled, though her eyes grew cold.
‘She was the one, oh she was so much fun,
How cruel that she never grew old.’
‘A pity indeed,’ she said with a smile,
And blew out a cold ring of smoke.
‘It’s only two years, I’ve shed so many tears,’
And he wept a bit more as he spoke.
‘There, there now my pet,’ she purred in his ear,
And prowled three times round the room.
‘Little Miss Ginger was a terrible whinger,
She died not a minute too soon.’
But he couldn’t hear, he was lost in his grief,
And his memories tugged at his sleeve.
And his wicked new wife was glad she took the life,
Of his red-haired love, Genevieve.