There she sits alone with a hefty growl,
lifting up her skirt with a screeching howl;
Coarse strands of hair streaming from her head,
she appears like a scarecrow crawling from the dead.

Always fearing life beyond her own dominion,
her voice was stern when shouting her opinion;
That raspy sound brought children to their knees,
this care-worn woman rarely aimed to please.

For a sad and solemn story caused her ruin,
left abandoned years ago by thoughtless kin;
Having lost her only son--a casualty of War,
retreating from the world was her only cure.

The destiny of those who've been affected,
by reckless chances taken through objections;
Have cost the souls of others waiting back home,
who'll only touch their loved ones--carried to their tombs.