Nothing seems more sad, when I see that old woman,
A dedicated wife, really a saint;
A man that expected her blood, sweat, and tears,
But never a complaint.
When I see that old woman,
I want to scream out for her rights;
March in a crowd, shout out strength,
Let her know she doesn't have to live in spite.
That old woman, still she strives,
Pulling the weeds around the old headstone;
Is it servitude, or love,
Or perhaps she is just quite alone?
