A Very Fine Fiddle Had She

When my mother was four

She got out of her bed

To see off the soldiers

At least that’s what she said.

She walked five miles from the farm

And stepped on a nail

But it did little harm

She was swept up in a gale

That carried her straight to

A green field in France

Where she wasn’t too late

To see the white poppies dance

“I thought it was pretty”

She said to me.

“Now, let me tell you

Of the “Fiddler of Dee”

My Demented Mother

 

Took my mother to see my  father.

It was my brother’s plan.

“Tell me, Jim,  oh tell me

Who was that old man?”

His death it wasn’t easy.

We followed him through the town.

“This place looks pretty sleazy

Can’t we drive around?”

Drove on past the movies.

Or at least where they had been.

“We snuck into the movies

Walking backwards going in.”

West Grove cemetery.

“Do you know where you are?”

“Damn it, Joe, of course I know

And I’m staying in the car.”

I don’t want to see.  I don’t want to see.

The breaking of the bough.

When her mother died my wife turned to me.

“I am an orphan now.”