She was a widow in Bridlington, she was, was the widow of Brid, Small and bonny at forty-two, With eyes of very unsettling blue, And what she thought she ought to do She did, she did, she did; Whatever she thought she ought to do She did, did the widow of Brid. My only darlings dead, he is, and all my children grown; The house has emptied, all the love-birds flown. In place of widows weeds Ill let my coal black hair grow long: As glossy as a blackbirds wing, as cocky as his song.
Posted on: Tue, 25 Nov 2014 02:19:53 +0000