The Native folks once brave and bold,
Had lost their lands – ancestor’s gold
Their trail of tears left opened wide
By snaky oils: the pale ones lied.
This prime real estate belongs to ‘God’ – His land.
Nothing is possible without His helping hand.
Marry a spouse, nothing to hold.
Owning a house, nothing but sold.
In this big box, there’s junk inside.
Undying love, working with pride.
Monthly mortgage payments — rents on a strip of land
Until death do us part, by my hard working hand.
Author’s note: First attempt at ‘Wrapped Refrain‘ poetry of two stanzas with 8-8-8-12-12 syllables in aabbcc pattern.
Copyright © 2007 by Fluffy von der Flynn. All rights reserved.