She’s silly, I’m silly, we’re all silly
What’s the use?
There was an old woman called Nothing-at-all,
Who lived in a dwelling exceedingly small;
A man stretched his mouth to its utmost extent,
And down at one gulp house and old woman went.
I know of a woman who has spent ten years designing her dream house: 8000 square feet for two people. Six bathrooms, three dressing rooms with handmade cherry cabinets, a heated attic floor. She called the contractor once at midnight, worried that the soffit was not the right color against the imported English roof. He told her to have a glass of wine and call him in the morning. Her friends think she will die when the house is finished because then she will have nothing to do.
What time is it?
There was an old woman and nothing she had,
And so this old woman was said to be mad.
She’d nothing to eat, she’d nothing to wear,
She’d nothing to lose, she’d nothing to fear,
She’d nothing to ask, and nothing to give,
And when she did die, she’d nothing to leave.
A man in our town just returned from a trip to Tanzania, where he spent some time in a Masai village. He told about watching a woman there sweeping leaves from her red clay dooryard with a little broom made of twigs. She was wearing many earrings, one made from a film canister. “That’s where,” he told us, “she keeps her snuff.”
(Cleaning out my stash of weird “poems” I came upon this. Whatever it is.)