Irish Widow

IRISH WIDOW It's a dreary kind of story, but a story young and old, in a way already finished, in a way it's never told, you can hear it when it's raining, but it's never meant to hear, it's a love not meant for seeing, but will never disappear. From the Poconos it's singing through the Pennsylvania trees, and a lot like Irish whiskey, it's a little bit of tease, if a summer rain is falling, it will be a little right, if a cold wind is ablowing, it will bring a little blight. It's a love a girl was living for a boy who changed her name, but an empty kind of feeling, for the way he played the game, so she killed him in the morning, and she buried him alone, while the buttonwoods were crying, her poor heart was turned to stone. You can hear them in the morning, you can hear them late at night, it's a dreary kind of story, but it's how they always fight. She will hit him with a hammer, he will stab her with his knife, but you know before the evening, he'll be buried by his wife. © Vee Bdosa the Doylestown Poet