How the Dandelions wave on your neat little grave,
in a ghost town in Colorado.
Gutted cabins rotting into dirt, little piles
of split wood memories.
A rusting stove where you cooked their meals,
among the pines, surrounded by snow.
Now that iron is thin as paper, rusted holes,
inhabited by birds nests.
Your little headstone says you died of pneumonia,
at the age of thirty seven.
Two children you had, by a worthless drunk man,
who could barely hold it together.
One son took up a job down on ******* Creek,
searching for fools gold.
He died a young mans life, no chance to grow old,
gone at nineteen, never came out of that hole.
Another worked the railroad, running down those tracks,
until he heard a nations call.
Didn't stand a chance, shelled in those trenches of France,
too much mustard gas, didn't last long.
They're buried here, in this little aspen grove,
forgotten in their repose.
But those Dandelions still dance & wave,
among those lonely graves.
The Dandelions still grow, despite it all.