I knew a woman once,
dull by nature and by name
who wanted to be the lightness
on a stormy day.
She planted flowers in her eyes,
to grow towards the light;
with her tears supplied them water
so they never had to die.
The people called her Beautiful
by the merit of those eyes.
But couldn't see the leaves curl
in the middle of the night.
They said 'A pretty garden,
is a devil to maintain.'
And still Miss Grey watered
through the night and through the day.
She strolled across the street
to such admiring looks;
fluttered lashes at the gentlemen
sharing beauty with their wives.
Day by day her garden grew,
displayed to all the town.
She brought the people to the edge
and brought them back again.
But the colours slowly faded
and became so overgrown
her face was streaked with darkness,
of an origin unknown.
As she took her daily strolls
her knees began to shake
and she winced under the pressure
of the people's daily gaze.
Soon she became an eye sore
as she wandered down the street.
The people crossed away from her
until Miss Grey was on her own.
She built a fence arond her eyes;
cried dutifully at night
but no-one called her beautiful,
once they had seen between her lies.
