Zinnia is fragile
As a flower in the ground
Near the Natchez Trace
On the outskirts of town

Like a stately mansion
Gleaming in the dusk
She has grown decrepit
Without human touch

People pass by
And ladies go to tea
She is in her nightgown
Some days until three

You may catch a glimpse
The curtains mostly drawn
She must be lonely
Her days are very long

A peculiar cat lady
She has more than one
No one dares stop
The children always run

Never did she marry
They call her an old maid
Like a pressed flower
Her beauty did fade

Alone in the parlor
Her shadow it grows
If she ever had a suitor
Nobody knows

An air of melancholy
Pervades her frame
A singular woman
She took no one's name