There was a woman lived up on the hill alone
below her stretched the little village town
to the curious locals her history was unknown
and she rarely to the village went down.

Her age also was unknown and indefinable
she was of small frame with a lively step,
not like the women in town she'd aged well
and her body and face she didn't neglect.

No beige cardigans and aprons for her
she wore tights, pointed bras and heels
and dangly ear rings and spiked her hair
but ne'er anything personal did she reveal.

So at the knitting circle stories started round
about this poor woman and her fabled past
like a rolling stone the rumours did expound
cruelly she became a woman loose and fast.

They'd heard tales that she had been overseas
their imagination went wild, it had no bounds.
Was it true she had an affair with a Burmese
she'd found in a remote hillstation town ?

The knitting needles went clickety click click,
then one large lady did lean over and confide
'she went to Thailand & can use a chopstick'
and they all tutted & muttered and sighed.

Then one day the woman on the hill fell ill
and hired a man to keep her garden trim.
He was quiet, his past haunted him still
she understood this and listened to him.

They got on well and appeared to be friends,
All agog the knitting circle didn't miss a trick
but their friendship they didn't comprehend
as the knitting needles went clickety click click.

To the movies they went and all the markets,
she wore her tights, pointed bra and heels;
he had long wild hair and beaded bracelets
but ne'er anything personal did they reveal.

Then one day the woman on the hill did die
and no one in town her passing did mourn,
But in the cemetery a lone figure did cry
with his long wild hair a sight so forlorn.

The woman left the house on the hill to him
and there was talk throughout the town;
but lovingly he kept their secret with a grin
He was a good son he wouldn't let her down..