ODE TO JANE AUSTEN

She wrote of prejudice and pride, Of sensibility and sense. She wrote of love, sometimes requited, sometimes not; All in an age of elegance (for those who could afford it) She never found romance herself, Or, when she did, declined it. She realised, perhaps, that what she wrote Bore no resemblance to the real life she knew. No Darcy there to rescue her, No Knightley to give sage advice. Her mother lacked the zeal of Mrs Bennett And settling eight offspring defeated her. Her father was a humble priest And no-one in their circle Had five thousand pounds a year Perhaps she should have used the Emma Woodhouse Agency, Although her record in that field was hit and miss. So she lived her romance through the written word, Inspiring others to pursue their dreams