A terrible thing happened today.

She took her life and went away. 

Her rickety car matched her blonde hair.

Wild and more than a little desperate.

She is a nightingale ghost singing to me of the insanity

Of leaving young parents to bring up children isolated

With no help from anybody. Her voice echoes

Across the years of coping, scraping by; while

The rich old have money untold. We should fly

Secret kites on secret nights just to see our children

Smile, forget their troubles, be happpy for a while,

Singing like the blessed mighty nightingale.