a tapestry scorned

'twas a frosted morn in winter deep

when rosey left for wood

the fire was low just barely a glow

when rosey left for wood

upon the wall a tapestry hung

a farmyard

brook and lane

a pleasant scene

naive theme

with wheat and hay and grain

no figures old or young

the artist did include

but now upon that landscape fair

a woman rough and crude

each day the image differed

the woman here and there

then close like a portrait

it was rosey standing there

i met a maid one summers day

i thought to make my wife

on getting home

the picture red

'twas rosey with a knife!

my new love i took to see

the rocks above the lake

and to my sin i pushed her in

the smile on rosey's face

days did pass and i grew old

but rosey looked the same

my bones were stiff

and hair was grey

but rosey looked the same

upon the bed and almost dead

she looked down on me

from the tapestry threads her hand did reach

my spirit now set free

after a time my friends did come

and were sorry to see me pale

the priest said what he thought was right

and they carried me away

my home was cleared

history sold

empty was my place

'cept a picture on the wall

of lovers in embrace