Miss Maudsley Hosenbolt on a park bench she sat, with the Vagabond Godfrey, enjoying a chat. “I do not like beets”, he told her cordially, “I only speak in song titles”, replied Maudsley.
“May I refer to you as Maude? “have you been labeled odd?” “Always,” “Crazy”, said she, just a “Girl on a Road”, “Ive’ Got To Be Me”. “What fun, I truly agree, laughed Godfrey.
It was the summer he had his table in the park- summer of song and poetry that he met Maudsley. “The times they are A Changing”, Godfrey, “The Rain in The Park and Other things”, to “My Home On The Range”, soon “I’ll Fly Away”, “Remember Me” when “Autumn Leaves” fall, “All Things Must Pass” for us all.
Eunice, the artist sat by the campfire, drawing the song titles spoken by Maudsley. Old Myra Hughes, whose home was the park, slurped tea with a frown of worry. Larry, The Free Advice Wino, tapped a Scrabble Tile, a C. “Larry, said Myra, I need your advice, though Maudsley is annoying I wish her to stay”.What do you advise? “let It Be’, shrugged Larry..
“Daddy Wouldn’t Buy Me a Bow-Wow”,” Long Ago and far Away”, “But it’s All Over Now,”sang Maudsley, soon I will touch “The Green, Green Grass of Home”, my “Feelings” no longer “Midnight Blue”, “My Favorites Things” will be “Remembering You”.
“Maudsley, dear Maudsley, how unique you be, brought mirth to our group here neath the shade tree, thanks from Godfrey.
“Rare is the poet who speaks in song titles, and dislikes beets as passionately”. In lieu of a suitcase, Maudsley carried a pail, of all she owned, with a tight lid to seal it. Sturdy and practical in all weather, made a handy chair, and no one was likely to steal it, wrote Godfrey.
“One last evening we camped out at the shade tree, “Red, Red, Wine”?, asked Larry of Maudsley”. Eunice said, “I Drew A Picture of Me without You”. “Do you Know Where you’re Going To?”, Myra inquired. “This Land Is Your Land”, Myra, said Maudsley, “I was “Born Free”. “Que Sera, Sera”, replied Myra.
“So Long, it’s Been Good To Know Ya”. “It was rarely serious under the tree, as later on The Media made it out to be….where are you now, Miss Maudsley Hosenbolt? since that long ago summer of poetic infamy…