”Mary take me home,” he used to say,
When he was young
If the party went too long.
With too much wine,
He’d lean his shaggy head on her lap and sigh,
“Mary, take me home.”
She’d brush away the hair from his eyes,
“Ok,” she’d say,
To the man she loved.
Safe in bed
She’d see him smile.
Now he’s old,
Mary’s gone
And the nurses come and hurt him,
With their needles and their tubes
And laugh at times
At the old man who struggles and cries
“Mary, take me home. Mary,
Take me home.”
