Florence

From her white garden seat, she carries a load, that time takes to defeat, secrets like lemons steeped, ravaged lipstick Eau De Cologne, she whispers her feelings, when lovers trick or treat, she surrenders perfume soaked, to drink whisky neat, living by a swollen creek, the bible takes a hold, and granny rolls her sleeves, a rifle next to the sheets, she's no rolling stone, what better cure than ease, won't bathe in wine or yeast, isolated but still at home, there are no more feasts, she'll measure those beans, there's no public telephones, down fields of blue wheat, she's not alone.