The Weeds

Brown passed away, and Mrs Brown, In weeds all smothered, went through town By Brown's neat grave to take her stand, And hold a metaphoric hand. She diligently drove away The sorrel springing every day. When Mrs. Robert Wittle died Poor Bob would sit her grave beside On Sunday afternoons, and shed His briny tribute to the dead; And dimpled Mrs. brown and he Had quite a bond of sympathy. But presently, I understand, 'Twas Bob who held the widow's hand. She decker herself in orange spray, And all her weeds she cast away. Now where the sorrel sheds its seeds Brown's grave is thick with widow's weeds.