Once long ago a maid donned a robe
a religious habit to please her God
The music flowed to her, no note could she read
Her songs were loved around the globe
In the sixties she made the gospel Mod
And even then she was a victim of greed

When she heard a different call and hung up the dress
or shroud, as called by her heart
She left the convent with hope and faith
Many turned against her, caused her distress
Without the habit her songs were bitter and tart
Her former glory a mournful wraith

In dispair the maid took her own life
there was no where to turn, no where to run
Those who would not ease her strife
Now ran to filled their pockets with grins
She was unhappy and knew little joy or fun
The sharks swim now, fear their fins

The images and words that painted her soul
are locked away in the hands of a miser
A man she would have hated in life
Makes sure the truth remains black as coal
He does as he pleases and no one is the wiser
But in death she calls to me with a faint, lonely fife           

copyright 2004 by D.A. Chadwick