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Crabby Old Woman 

When an old lady died in the geriatric ward of a small hospital near
Dundee, Scotland, it was  believed that she had nothing left of any
value. Later, when the nurses were  going through her meager
possessions, they found this poem. It's quality and content so
impressed the staff that copies were made and distributed to every
nurse in the hospital. One nurse took her copy to Ireland.

The old lady's sole bequest to posterity has since appeared in the
Christmas edition of the News Magazine of the North Ireland
Association for Mental Health.  A slide presentation has also been
made based on her simple, but eloquent, poem. And this little old
Scottish lady, with nothing left to give to the world, is now the
author of this "anonymous" poem winging across the web.

"Crabby Old Woman."

What do you see, nurses?
What do you see?
What are you thinking
When you're looking at me?

A crabby old woman,
Not very wise,
Uncertain of habit,
With faraway eyes?

Who dribbles her  food
And makes no reply
When you say in a loud voice,
I do wish you'd try!

Who seems not to notice
The things that you do,
And forever is losing
A stocking or shoe?

Who, resisting or not,
Lets you do as you will,
With bathing and feeding,
The long day to fill?

Is that what you're thinking?
Is that what you see?
Then open your eyes, nurse,
You're not looking at me.

I'll tell you who I am
As I sit  here so still,
As I do at your bidding,
As I eat at your will.

I'm a small child of ten
With a father and mother,
Brothers and sisters,
Who love one another.

A young girl of sixteen
With wings on her feet
Dreaming that soon now
A lover she'll meet.

A bride soon at twenty,
my heart gives a leap,
Remembering the vows
That I promised to keep.

At twenty-five now,
I have young of my own,
Who  need me to guide
And a secure happy home.

A woman of thirty,
My  young now grown fast,
Bound to each other
With ties that should  last.

At forty, my young sons
Have grown and are gone,
But my man's beside me
To see I don't mourn.

At fifty once more,
Babies play round my knee,
Again we know children,
My loved one and me.

Dark days are upon me,
My husband is dead,
I look at the future,
I shudder  with dread

For my young are all rearing
Young of their own,
And I  think of the years
And the love that I've known.

I'm now an old  woman
And nature is cruel;
'Tis jest to make old age
Look like a  fool.

The body, it crumbles,
Grace and vigor  depart,
There is now a stone
Where I once had a heart.

But inside  this old carcass
A young girl still dwells,
And now and again,
My  battered heart swells.

I remember the joys,
I remember the  pain,
And I'm loving and living
Life over again.

I think of the  years
All too few, gone too fast,
And accept the stark fact
That  nothing can last.

So open your eyes, people,
Open and see,
Not a  crabby old woman;
Look closer . . . see ME !

Remember this poem when you next meet an old person who you
might brush aside without looking at the young soul within . .

we will all, one day, be there, too!

Thank  you,

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