(10 November, 1997)
by Lauren Cooper
(1964 - 1999)
Were you the Queen of hearts, Diana?
Just how much was your pitying planned?
When we met in hospital, Diana,
You wouldn't even touch my hand.
Your love set our hearts a-pounding ...
You even learnt how to sign ...
How magnanimous; and how astounding
That you wouldn't touch that hand of mine.
Am I to mourn that sick-rich dame
Whose pennies paid for her pass
Through the gates of fame in an empty name
As Dear Diana has?
What of him who worked for your lover
Whose life your stupidity bust?
"It's all right: We could buy up another
And pulp his face, too, into dust."
Diana, I longed to be so like you:
My love for people is deep, and true:
It's for him, not you, I cried.
My all-consuming passion
Is spreading laughter and love through each land.
I care not for impression and fashion
Or the ridiculous airs of the grand.
Your love did not set my heart pounding,
For although you knew how to sign
(How magnanimous; and how astounding)
You would not touch that hand of mine.