That Girl

She is the queen of words who sits Serenely at her desk and contemplates How she can compose to show her wit And put an end to their debates, With all the tales she relates. There was a time when her fecund mind Whetted by the bloom of youth could bind Her inspirations, to spin a yarn, A touching tale so carefully designed That life’s rhythm would her page adorn. Her pen is poised, waiting for words To sing her praise and clear her name. Her chignon finds rest at her nape, silver cords There bind. She dreams of fame – Struck, she whispers ‘life can drive you insane.’ The pen falls plop, on her mahogany desk She knows now there’s nothing left to risk Except the stories that warm her heart And it would only make her sick If from her they should depart.