The twiddling thumbs of hers go round and round.
Fiddling sums of money go round and round.
Where these two stop she does not care or know.
She keeps twiddling due to lack of this dough.
Fiddlers could dance on her rooftop this time.
Bakers could work throughout the kitchen grime.
The twiddle, however, could not be stilled.
She waits for the dough to rise with its thrills.
The warmth of bread rises up to the nose.
Her ravished eating goes money blows.
The fiddler plays his melodious tune
as he eats her soup with a silver spoon.
The night draws near as she sighs with her yawn.
She heads home down a river like a swan.
She rides in her car, which rolls towards home.
Her black beaded purse contains her black comb.
She strokes her raven hair down from a bun.
She jokes to herself that tonight was fun.
She danced and dined and enjoyed some red wine.
She met a man who was gorgeous and fine.
Her thumbs twiddle through times of thick and thin.
In the end, she will always wear her grin.
When love is lost, stolen and forgotten,
money gained and not shared ends up rotten.
Revised on 07-14-2006 at 07:26PM…
Copyright © 2007 by Fluffy von der Flynn. All rights reserved.