It was Zoppot in the summer
She was the beauty on the strand
The air was filled with schlagers
As she held a stranger's hand
They danced upon the crystal
Lit from below
And spoke of Pola Negri
Where are they now?
She waited at the station
Cloche, chemise and train
Who would have guessed
Her life would end
Down a little country lane?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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