Rolling, rolling

The hills are rolling, rolling,

and forces on that gypsy

a sway and tilt, an upheaval,

she’d rather not endure.

Tied firmly as she is

to the seat of mortal life

she’s moving but not dancing

from morn until midnight.

And then there are the hours

when mind escapes the sway

and she wonders if she cries

sad or happy tears.

The hills are rolling, rolling,

and that gypsy gal is moving

until finally all is still

and she sleeps the sleep

of the well and truly dead!