Never was there black, neither was there white,
Never was there day, neither was there night.
Forever trapped at seventeen, lunching on the mezzanine,
wearing grey-green velveteen, anticipating unforeseen,
Betwixt and/or between, beguiled by the beguine,
always polite, the good girl.
Despite the guillotine,
when your daydreams waltzed, did you whirl?
Really, Josephine, were you ever seventeen?