In the thoughts of life
That have no meaning.
I wander amongst
Those that have become lost.
Who is to conspire against me
When I'm but a poor old fool?
There is no money to be had,
Nor possessions to acquire.
Yet in my simplicity I'm rich
To those around me.
They see I'm content
And are jealous my worries are few.
Always,
Deborah
Love ya!
Jane