MARY BETH SMYTH
This is the story of Mary Beth Smyth,
A lady of substance and means,
Who had everything that money could buy,
Which would satisfy most people's dreams.
A spectacular house, which sat on a hill,
With a view of the city below,
Like a fairyland castle, it seemed to be,
So lit up at night, it glowed.
She rode in a limo, shiny and black,
More than twenty feet long, I would bet,
Its driver held an umbrella for her,
If the weather were snowy or wet.
Her dresses, they say, were Dior's,
Designed exclusively just for her,
And though politically incorrect,
She had two closets full of furs.
Her daughter went to finishing school,
In Europe far away,
Her son, I heard, was a Harvard man,
Top of his class, they say.
Her husband, handsome and charming,
Was a successful financier,
He traded stocks on Wall Street,
His income doubled each year.
He was a genuine bon vivant,
Women flattered, when he spoke,
Even older ladies twittered,
When he told his naughty jokes.
He sailed frequently on his yacht,
Often without Mary Beth,
Which suited her just fine,
Since the water bored her to death.
Mary Beth had a pet cat,
That wore a diamond collar,
A status symbol; that's all it meant,
For they both ignored each other.
The cat was smart; knew what was what,
It was fed three times a day,
It flashed its collar frequently,
And never strayed away
Plays and concerts were Mary Beth's thing,
She had her own box in the hall,
Where she could flash her jewelry,
And impress and dazzle all.
With all of her money and wealth,
Mary Beth's main delight was to spend,
But no matter how much cash she had,
She found she could buy no friends.
She looked down her nose at her neighbors,
Whom she considered dull and mundane,
Even the few she deemed upper-crust,
She thought were boring and plain.
One day Mary Beth died,
There was no sadness in town,
No one went to her funeral,
and saw her laid out in her gown.
Her daughter was having a fling somewhere,
Her son, folks said, was in prison,
No one quite sure what he had done,
The reason hushed-up and well hidden.
Her handsome husband did attend,
As he was expected to do,
But no tears streamed down his well-tanned face,
And he left once the service was through.
Imported, Italian marble
Was chosen to mark Mary Beth's grave,
Hers, the largest stone in the graveyard,
Hand carved and elaborately made.
But the vases placed there to hold flowers,
Remained empty year after year,
The lights, turned off in her house on the hill,
The place totally dark and drear.
No one felt bad at her passing,
In fact, very few knew she was gone,
No one's life was affected or changed,
And the world kept going around.
Mary Beth's place in heaven?
Nobody knew, and few people cared,
Just the Lord, I think, was saddened,
ForHe could not welcome her there.
Virginia (Ginny) Ellis
Copyright June 2004 ~ Revised August 2006