I'm a wayside inn, far from the city,
waiting for people to come and make my crumbled walls jolly.
Matter of a day or two -
All the awful din that keeps my rusting bolts jolting like rum over whitewashed beard.
Wearily i wait over each day void counting for shoes big and small.
Come see the chandelier still Hangs,
The torn tapestry right where it used to be!
Dont your old folks recall the vine and me?
Lingering Amusement 's a word in vain;
Yet I tarry on ,
My unsettled reins do moan,
the startling effect every blessed time,
when y'all leave.