The poem
My first I wed when just sixteen And he was sixty-five. He treated me like any queen The years he was alive. Oh I betrayed him on the sly, Like any other bitch, and how I longed for him to die And leave me young and rich!
My second is a gigolo I took when I was old; That he deceives me well I know, And hungers for my gold. When I adore each silken hair That crowns his handsome head, I'm everlastingly aware He wishes I were dead.
How I would love my vieux if he Today were by my side; My gig would have been daft for me When I was first a bride. But for his mother I can pass, Although I am his wife; Like father was my first - alas! The irony of life.