( A tale that proves not all 95 year old women are as nice as they would have you believe)
Miss Molly was a widow,
At number forty-one
She'd lived for years,
And dried her tears,
And watched the dying sun
Each and every night,
As she sat spinning by the stove,
Through flimsy flailing sight,
She lingered on and strove
For a hope that wavered thin,
And flickered in the breeze,
Of far-flung places,
Blurry faces,
Trapped in misty dreams,
And then one lonely august eve,
There called a man, by name of Steve,
Adrift and lost he'd found his way,
Into her home, and there he stayed,
And there he sat and laughed and fell,
Under Molly's lusty spell,
They married then, before November,
Miss Molly could not but remember,
The first husband that lay below,
The old graveyard, in winter snow.
Old Steve had joined him, by next, June,
As Molly set sail for Cancun,
No one knew, how rich he'd been,
No one suspected poisoning.
-Dark Phoenix
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