Lady McClay
by Dianna Brod-Bentley
07.07.95
Did you ever hear of the Lady McClay?
For all of us here knew her well.
If we could persuade you to listen and stay,
we'd have her grim story to tell.
A woman tall, lanky, and thin was she,
most always a near perfect sight.
Her make-up was put on so carefully.
Black hair pulled back strictly and tight.
Never a smile did we see on her face.
I think that we once heard her say,
"What if those wrinkles that come when I smile,
should stay never going away?"
Now you may just think that was silly,
and Lady McClay quite absurd,
but let us assure you that really,
sad, is a far better word.
You know, in her life she had no fun at all.
For what would her rich neighbors think,
if she were seen out with surf, sun, and beach-ball
instead of in diamonds and mink.
Her yard was a wet, luscious, large one.
Grass cut every Sunday at noon.
Don't think she had parties, there were none.
Empty greens under the moon.
And up from that lawn stood a house so well kept.
It's windows and gables pristine.
She made sure her halls and her porches were swept.
Of keeping things clean she was Queen.
And all of those things that she did were because,
she wanted all people to say,
that 'Never a cleaner neat person there was,
than that decent Lady McClay.'
But in McClay's fiftieth year and six,
that 'clean decent lady' did die.
While scrubbing a floor of mortar and bricks,
she let out her last boring sigh.
Now that a good many months have gone by,
the weeds have climbed up her porch stairs.
If she could see it she'd certainly cry,
but as it all is, no one cares.
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