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.