Her face was wrinkled, her hands coarse,
Her blonde hair was cut into fringes, her voice was hoarse
But there seemed something, something about Mrs. Routher.
Not the grey locks, the stammer and stutter,
There was something, something about Mrs, Routher.

She sat at the village junk shop, night and day,
Her face seemed gloomy; but made mine gay.
Whenever she looked at me, she smiled a dry smile.
There seemed something; beautiful and vile.

Perhaps I will never understand what it is,
That had taken away her bliss.
For now, there is no dry smile to see,
Because Mrs. Routher is not between you and me.