Miss Emily died, alone and friendless,
after a life that seemed hollow and endless.
Now she lays in the cemetery graves,
with Union and Confederate soldiers from Civil war days.
She had been a tradition, a duty, a care, a hereditary obligation,
before this whole situation.
She was a small, fat woman in black, with a thin gold chain descending to her waist,
her voice was hard cold and dry, not a bit of sympathy to be traced.
This is really what happened, there really
and that’s it for the poem, based on “A Rose for Miss Emily.