The flowers still bloom
In the spot where she killed
Her gun as cold and hard as
Her woman’s heart of steel.
Folks around here claim
The blood and stench
Of the unburied
Left its mark
Where once the earth was arid
There grows an immaculate garden
Among exotic blooms
Lofty’s bones take in the sun.
Perhaps his death was meant to be
And the woman meant to be praised
For in this town of three-hundred
So fine a flower was never grown.
Still, we saw the woman hanged
And we buried the remains
And the people of the town agreed
Poor old Lofty had not died in vain.