How does she manage, folks wondered,
She is so old and all alone,
Her place looks like a fire-trap,
Whoever cleans her home?
What does she eat? She doesn't cook,
And to dine out, she never goes,
Like a bag lady she would look,
In her poor, old, worn-out clothes,
She doesn't garden, though she has the ground,
And she won't tend to plants or flowers,
She never waters her shrubs or lawn,
Just depends on thunder-showers.
She doesn't have a little dog
To put on a leash and walk,
And she doesn't exercise or jog,
Let alone, stroll around the block.
No birdsongs from a hanging cage,
Nor cat-purrs from a lap,
No baskets of green foliage,
Nor pots with pretty plants.
No outsiders have been seen,
No one ever comes around,
Eccentric, she has grown to be,
Most folks laugh at her - or frown.
Once she must have had a life,
Surely once she had been young,
Had she ever been a wife?
Isn't there someone for everyone?
No young folks or no grandkids
At any time come up her walk,
There are no kin or relatives,
About whom she ever talks.
I think that it would do no harm,
When you next go by her place,
To look her way and wave your arm,
With a smile on your face.
A little show of fellowship.
Would not cost you a cent,
A small sign of warmth and friendship
Might seem as heaven sent.
One never knows what life may bring,
Perhaps one day you'll be alone,
With nothing there to help you sing,
In a cold and empty home.
So, my friend, extend your hand,
Though a hug or pat is better,
But even a smile to a lonely man
Is like sunshine in foul weather.