No sadder person does exist
than melancholy Greta Grief.
She whimpers, wails hysterically;
her tears are shed without relief.

If someone died, she's at the wake,
a sobbing, sympathetic peer
whose white lace hanky's always soaked,
whose heartfelt sorrow is sincere.

A grave site's where she mostly dwells
if she's not weeping in a pew.
On bended knee with hands clasped high
she cries aloud for all she knew.

A handsome woman in her time,
her face now haggard, drawn from tears
has swollen eyes a vague blue hue
and mouth stretched shapeless over years.

A cheerless lady dressed in black,
Miss Greta has no living friends.
Since those she loved were slain in war,
her plaintive grieving never ends.