Whispering Hills Manor
The old folks in their wheelchairs still complain
that lunch is late, and cold, the day is drear,
the forecast is for everlasting rain.
There's maybe one among them who is sane
"but he's been deaf an age in either ear,"
the old folks in their wheelchairs still complain.
They're not past noticing the pricks and pain
that never make their boredom disappear.
The forecast is for everlasting rain
but that's just tedium, a dead refrain
repeating like a casual stab of fear.
The old folks in their wheelchairs still complain
while looking out the window, past the stain
of fingerprints the cleaning ladies smear.
The forecast is for everlasting rain,
but not a weatherman would dare maintain
a storm could ever wash their prospects clear.
The old folks in their wheelchairs still complain,
the forecast is for everlasting rain.
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