I once knew a man who carried in his hand a letter from long ago, he carried if with pride it brought tears to his eyes, and all it said is I love you true.
Now they would inquire of him tell me my friend the writer of your letter of blue , he would smile and say I may tell you some day but right now I have work to do.
He chiseled in stone a name unknown a head stone it seemed to be, he worked all night till dawns early light then covered it for no eye to see.
He would go back to the house quiet as a mice and cook up some soup or grub, and no one knew the writer of blue though some guessed his lady love.
Then it happened one day , he was passing my way , so I stopped to bid him ado , I carried in my hand a doll from Japan and when he saw it , it broke him into.
He said that doll in your hand it reminds me of Fran it was her dream to have one some day, but she left to soon this world of doom and now she sleeps just beyond the way.
She was only seven when God called her to Heaven and ture my world apart, with her mother gone just like a song she had stolen away my heart.
She would thank the Lord at night before I turned pit her light for a father who loved her true, and on her pillow lay her dying day this letter written in blue.
Now that was years ago and I want you too know I still visit the grave of Fran, and chiseled in stone is a doll all her own just like the one from Japan.