Emma Lee

There once was a girl named Emma Lee.
She was a spunky little thing, when she came to me.

She cocked her little head, her pert nose raised in glory,
And demanded so sweetly that I must write her a story.

I raised my head humbly and considered slowly,
When she snapped her fingers and declared, “Promptly!”

Then she folded up her hands and smiled sweetly,
And she batted an eyelash at my papers discreetly.

As if to say, “I know this story will be all about me!”
But still the lass was wee, and was curious to see,

How expressly words could capture her inexpressible beauty,
And aptly fill long sonnets with the extent of her humility.

So I took my pen to paper, that I might be free,
To write about her with sweet songs and poetry.

But it shocked me when my pencil began to write for me,
And took my hand about, and (I fear) made me write poorly.

The girl asked me what I’d written with eyes so starry,
And she grabbed for my paper, but I said I was sorry.

She pouted, “But what’s it about?”, and I faked a smiley,
And said, “Wickedness. Now please leave,” quite slyly.

But she grabbed it fast, and I felt a little doozy,
As she read those naughty words and looked a little woozy.

I watched her run a-crying, while the paper fluttered spryly,
And I picked up the small sheet, and read a little dryly,

“The end.”