FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE

FOR BETTER, FOR WORSE

A deck of cards in his hand
He plays solitare
A pair of scissors in her hand
She tries to trim his hair;
He takes a walk 'round the block
She watches where he goes
Sometimes he forgets the way
As he removes his clothes.

It's been a year now he's been sick
He doesn't seem to know
That he's changed in every way
She listens as she sews;
"Martha, where's my horse at?"
She replies "He died."
"Oh" is all he has to say
And they both sit and cry.