The lady who lived in the big house,

At the end of our quiet street,

Unfortunately and without warning,

That lady died just last week.

 

Her daughter has been round several times,

Assisting with household chores,

That will eventually make the house sale complete,

Once theirs, it could soon become yours.

 

I have to pinch myself every time I see her,

When she is out and about in the street

For she is the spitting image,

Of the lady who died just last week.

 

The daughter's husband is a big man,

Walks two massive furry dogs,

That sleep in his car overnight,

Because neither dog is allowed, 

In the house at the end of the street,

That belonged to the lady who died just last week.

 

The daughter's car stays on the drive,

Even when she’s not there,

To give the illusion someone’s in,

luckily, they have a spare,

That’s parked on the drive of the house at the end of the street,

Belonging to the lady who died just last week.

 

I would have to leave my driveway empty,

But I’d leave the house radio on, full volume,

To give the illusion I was home, but that would just,

Confirm to others I have no musical taste.

Maybe I could borrow the spare in the street, 

From the daughter of the lady who died just last week.

 

I get the impression from previous encounters,

That daughter and mother were one of a kind,

Not just an uncanny resemblance,

But an uncanny understanding of mind.

So god bless the mother, of the daughter,

Of the lady who died just last week.