Bottle neck blues
A terrible thing happened today.
She took her life and went away.
Her rickety car matched her blonde hair.
Wild and more than a little desperate.
She is a nightingale ghost singing to me of the insanity
Of leaving young parents to bring up children isolated
With no help from anybody. Her voice echoes
Across the years of coping, scraping by; while
The rich old have money untold. We should fly
Secret kites on secret nights just to see our children
Smile, forget their troubles, be happpy for a while,
Singing like the blessed mighty nightingale.