A lady poet came this time,
A mistress of rhythm and of rhyme.
For all she’d do is write on paper,
About the rose, about the rapier.
Stories too, she also wrote,
The room went silent whene’er she spoke.
She’d written once about a lad,
Such golden hair this young man had.
So handsome the man, and noble was he,
So infatuated with him was she.
She sent him on adventures bold,
But he always lived, so his tail could be told.
Obsessed with this fiction she became,
She always loved to say his name.
At times, she’d imagine he were real!
And then her days would be ideal.
She stayed all day, inside her room,
Speaking to her imagined groom.
Clearly then, the poet was mad!
To watch her rave, it seemed quite sad,
But that’s what happens when you only write.
You do become a bit contrite.
Another assignment from last year, inspired on “The Canterbury Tales” by Geoffrey Chaucer.