So listen to me my children,
The moral to the story and win,
If materialism was the key
To happiness and home free
My cousin Ura May was privileged,
Generations before her had dredged,
Wealth to a pinnacle,
Schemed, dreamed to make it jell.
Everything was there for her,
An elegant home, plentiful water,
She was the pampered daughter,
But she was alone without a mother,
And that place was never filled by another.
Wistfully, she, like Dorothy sang,
Notes from the song rang,
The ghost of her voice sounds low
Whispers of “Over the Rainbow.”
Ura May never found a blue bird,
Not in Grants, New Mexico was it heard,
Nevermore did it go,
In mountains of Colorado.
Once she tried to come home,
But the house was vacant, she was again, alone.
She learned wealth cannot buy contentment,
Too late Ura May left her resentment.
She called before she died,
And together we cried.
I begged her to come home again,
But we both knew, there was too much pain.
Bend low your knees my loved ones,
Pick up your happiness where it comes,
At your feet and right around you,
To your own (self) be true.