The well.

The well.

Of it’s stories

I will tell

Little Sally

Poor little Sally

She lunged

Into the never ending


Now she sits

at the bottom

Waiting for someone,

Someone like me

To come and talk to her

She’s very lonely

And old Tom

Blind, deaf Tom

He too fell

Into the darkness of the


He also sits

with little Sally

But doesn’t know

That she’s even there

He doesn’t even

Really care

Last, but not least,

There’s sweet Margarite

She doesn’t sit

At the bottom

With little Sally and old Tom

She dangles

And hangs

Onto one of the roots

That to giant Oaks

It belongs

And a person to talk to

Is one thing which she longs

All three

At the bottom


Waiting for me

The well.

The well.

Of it’s stories

I did tell