The High Life.

Her Dull and weathered state of mind, Oppressed by clouds of modern times.
Caged by steel and concrete towers
Her depression darkens hour by hour;
The beauty of life and country sour.

The elevator has made a stand
And sworn defiance by raise of hand,
So on to hell upon weary feet
To hide from life under filthy sheets-
A fatherless burden, her maker meets.



Put down your book,
Lay your head upon my chest
And talk with me a while.
Can you feel the age-old comfort
Of my touch on your shoulders
And see happiness
In the lines around my eyes,
Which have appeared
On or long journey of smiles.
Although our hands are old
Our fingers still intuitively entwine;
Soul mates until we close our eyes forever.