Who lives here,

In this shack,

In a dead end corner,

By the bayou's edge?

A funeral bier,

Drapped in black,

With a weeping mourner,

Behind the overgrown hedge.

I pass as a sightseer,

And see the little placque,

On a post on the corner,

A statue of a little dog on a make shift ledge.

I will no longer pass by silent.

Silence for the lonely is an act of violence.