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Description
She sits there, at his wake. Moaning tears long ago spilt, yet wet. Her fountain pours lugubrious and somber, captivating in the light.
Not by beauty, but sight for nothing holds attention than a weeping maid.
As she sits there mumbling soft words barely escaping her breast, the eerie silence chimes in riducule, as does all esle,
for nothing holds attention than a weeping maid.
Her countenance stained, battered, and bruised by the edge of words gleaming in the eyes of all who see-
for nothing holds attention that a weeping maid.
So small she seems, as should be, for wrong she is, and with that wrong, with that be gone!
For nothing holds attention than a weeping maid.

Description
She sits there, at his wake. Moaning tears long ago spilt, yet wet. Her fountain pours lugubrious and somber, captivating in the light.
Not by beauty, but sight for nothing holds attention than a weeping maid.
As she sits there mumbling soft words barely escaping her breast, the eerie silence chimes in riducule, as does all esle,
for nothing holds attention than a weeping maid.
Her countenance stained, battered, and bruised by the edge of words gleaming in the eyes of all who see-
for nothing holds attention that a weeping maid.
So small she seems, as should be, for wrong she is, and with that wrong, with that be gone!
For nothing holds attention than a weeping maid.