Held prisoner inside her home,

Not much space to move or to roam,

Miss Lottie gardens all alone,

While the kids next door throw stones,

Wrecking her last marigold,

The kids next door have that guilt to hold,

No more little stone throwing games,

They hold the evidence and blames,

Her son Joey, sits in his chair,

But he can't do much except stare,

Head hanging in a heavy shame,

Miss Lottie could not be more tame,

No more gardening in her home,

Just a small vacant space to roam,

The last piece of beauty in town,

Buried so far deep and so down,

Those marigolds shall never rise,

They were the last small hope that dies.