Just the other day, it seems, big projects needed doing.
That was just the other day.
Just the other day, or so it seems,
I was cooking, walking, dancing.
Just the other day slid off over eight years
of being too tired, too sad. Too bad.
"Take a pill, see a shrink, take a vacation, get a hobby.
Get a life."
I fumbled and grumbled. I tried it all,
But could not buy the "tsking and tutting, "
The "Oh, lordy, she's-just-another-nutting."
Just the other day, or so it seems.
Then I found out why projects piled on me, weighed me down.
It had a name, this unwanted guest.
Parkinson's had dropped by. Not so bad.
I'd take pills. I would be better. Not too sad.
But I stumbled with my plan to handle things well,
I'd lost my pace. I'd lost my place.
I did get better and still am. Just not fixed.
I thought at least my story is laid well out. I'll end with grace.
That's what I thought, just the other day.
Just the other day, or so it seems, I realized projects lie there waiting.
I'll cook a little, and walk with help. But dancing, let's call that over.
It was then, just the other day, or so it seems,
I realized that I will never live in Paris, but in my dreams.
I'd always planned to, or so it seems.