She loved him deeply & for him she
cared,
She cooked, cleaned & of all she
shared,
Dawn to dusk, washing, ironing &
mending,
On raw knees, scrubbing & sorely
bending,
It was always about him.
With low meager rations, she eked &
made do,
She went without, so he had his warming
stew,
She never denied, when his passions roared
rife,
It was her duty to him, always to be a good
wife,
It was always about him.
Her children she raised, good daughters
& sons,
Foregoing her pleasures & her forgotten
lost fun,
Then her children left home & her
husband fell ill,
She was by his side to care &
administer his pills,
It was always about him.
“What a wonderful man”, said neighbours one
& all,
But she then succumbed to death, in one
fatal fall,
Her laughter echoed daily, from blue far
away skies,
As cold raindrops tumbled, from her far
distant eyes,
It was always about him.
“Poor man”, they all said, “Now left all on
his own”,
“How on earth will he cope, without her at
home?
Who will care for & feed him? Such a
terrible sin”
From heaven she mused, it was always about
him,
But now it is all about me.
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