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She cannot take a hint.
She keeps trying to make a time.
To come to my house and drink all of my wine.
She invites herself in, and tells me the date.
I know better now, so I delay her calendar slate.

We had made dates before,
To paint, and have conversations adult.
But she brought her two-year-old granddaughter, 
So it was sort of her fault, that crude curd-i-o.
I met her at the door, explaining even my children
Know better than to bring their children to my art studio.

She tried to argue her way in, but I barred the door hard.
I may seem soft, but I know my petard.
I suggested they swing on the swing set outside,
Then I locked the doors soundly and stayed safe inside.
She rapped on my windows, my doors, and my walls.
She put the two-year-old on her head, making her extra tall.

Who is that nut my husband finally asked.
No, she is not taking no, so I am lying like mad.
If she came back anytime soon, I might be the one sad.

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