Most small towns are big let downs,
where life can be a bore.
The beloved alcove, is the pot bellied stove,
in Uncle Ben's General Store. Our little town, has a female clown,
that spins her tales like a rattler.
She mingles her prose, with the scent of a rose,
for the ear that will hear, as she tattles. A gossip she is, and a gossip she'll stay,
She conceives and then weaves all her lies.
And the blarney she brays, she dispenses in ways,
that might muddle the minds of the wise. Ruthie's her name, and gossip's her game,
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem