ALL she wanted was a pretty view,
A garden of heathers and bluebells too.
When she looked out at that stone grey wall,
Her pretty smile about said it all.
She never wore satin, she never wore white,
In shades of grey she sat by candle light.
Now that she knew she was going to die,
She smiled at the thought of flowers in the sky.
Laid in her coffin in satin and white,
That little old lady was a pretty sight.
The mourners all gathered round her grave,
Shed tears for a lady they couldn't save.
As winters passed by and that grey wall fell,
I saw some heathers and bluebells as well.
That little old lady, if she only knew,
She had what she wanted, that pretty view. By Margot Gibson
Breightmet Drive
Bolton
Converted for the new archive on 14 July 2000. Some images and formatting may have been lost in the conversion.
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