The Swing

Every night of last year, she swinged on that swing,

in the park behind your house, waiting, for something.

But it was dust that she could see,

and she meant nothing to me,

I could see her from my window,

And it was raining.

Every evening, just around eight, in the dark, I saw her wait,

Saw her swing and anticipate, and nervously swearing.

Every now and then, I heard her sigh,

They said she was craving to die.

And when I saw her talk to the stars,

That is exactly, what she must be saying.

Came the dark night, I can’t forget,

She lay waiting in the wet,

It kept raining on and on

The clouds thundered, the sky bled.

And I stood quietly by my post,

In my hand, I held a toast,

To praise the heavens for their finale,

And I drank cheerily for this was the end,

For an entire year, every night, she swung,

On that dainty old piece of junk,

And the entire last year, we managed

to stay indoors, and silently wait.

And that night, I know you heard me

It was just an old oak tree

They say, she never saw it coming,

But she had been waiting since a year for this day.