Elsie Brown has a suitcase She carries in a cart round town Filled with books, former newsdays The pages we've all thrown out Her hands are gnarled Clothes are tattered As she whispers her words to the air But don't you think she doesn't matter Because you've never seen the poetry there And Elsie Brown talks to street lights Sees them shining in the bright of day And she smiles for the children Sees them shining as they walk away Her hands are gnarled Clothes are tattered As she whispers her words to the air But don't you think she doesn't matter Because you've never seen the poetry there In Elsie Brown And Elsie Brown has a daughter She hasn't seen in fifteen years I found this out in a letter On the ground the day she disappeared Her hands were gnarled Clothes were tattered As she whispered her words to the air But don't you think she didn't matter Because you've never seen the poetry there In Elsie Brown