May Bea
May Bea was a young girl when her widowed father keeled over in his garden, clutched his chest and died
Left her caretaker of the cottage and his roses, both of them his pride
May Bea had planned to go to schooling a teacher she was certain she would be
But first the roses needed pruning, growing up there round the willow tree
May Bea wore a hat upon her head but her hands in the wormy earth always they were bare
The roses bloomed in manic profusion pouring o'er the garden under ceaseless songful care
Out in front the garden there was a fence, a slat gated, simple white painted thing
Out there, on drifted air any passer by, could clearly hear sweet May Bea sing
May Bea sang in her high contralto, her tones at first pitch perfect crystal clear
Sang the songs of her father's boyhood country, the notes he held so dear
Months they kept on melting one year soft as rose petals becoming five, then ten, and on
Blue veins sprouted neath her white skinned hands and pushed her youth til it was true begone
Miss May Bea kept on singing for eighty years, although at last her voice grew whispered low
Her tattered hat slipped from her head, on rose strewn ground Miss May Bea, gardened go
May Bea had planned to go to schooling when her garden chores were through
Only there always was a something that was in desperate need for her to do
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