A poor bewildered, half-crazed crone
She died, forgotten and alone;
And some there were who stopped to scoff
When the old dame was taken off,
While the busy world went wheeling on
Scarce knowing even she was gone.
Of course she may have done some good,
But then, most any woman could
Who had the muscle and a hatchet,
With Irish wit as keen to match it;
Yet smashing windows so erratic
Soon proved her just a plain fanatic.
A sort of Jezebel crusader,
Like Don Quixote nothing stayed her, -
No wonder people shied eggs at her,
She seemed to like to watch 'em splatter,
And stood like wild things when at bay
So sort of fearless, old and gray.
And then to die so, after all,
Insane and in a hospital,
Good God, suppose she had been sane
And we who had the rotten brain,
I hate to stand on Judgement day
Beside that woman old and gray.
I'd hate to face the those flashing eyes
That scanned a state's hypocrisies
And woke a commonwealth to shame
with crashing axe and words of flame
Until men dare to carry out
The laws they made and lied about.