Never a man will my heart so keep,
As with young Eleanor, whom I loved so deep.
And for no man or brute will my broken soul weep;
‘Twas the folly of man that hath caused my grief.
Eleanor Jones was a girl so young.
She took on a lover with a passion for drink,
She could not see the harm, she did not even think.
He was double her age, and triple her size,
And he walked with a murderous look in his eyes.
Eleanor Jones was a girl in love.
But his hands were quite handsome, in a rugged respect,
And their strength was apparent as
they wrapped 'round her neck.
So another white rabbit runs off with the fox;
When Death stands at your doorway, he so seldomly knocks.
Eleanor’s corpse hides with mud and with bones.
I am haggard and old, and oh so mistrusting,
And Eleanor’s flowers are wilting and crusting.
The iron-clad hinges on her casket are rusting,
And all that remains are the bones I am dusting;
Dusting what’s left of Eleanor Jones.