The Little Girl


Once upon a midnight trample, while I cooked for family so ample,

One dozen I wish, two dozen it is.

With the stirring spoon sitting in my palm, I stared at the scorching soup,

A sudden sonorus stomp approached my ear, I so fastly disappear.

“Tis my husband” I whispered to myself, “flattening the meat --

Only this and nothing more.”


Ah, but I slowly grew wary - “Tis the mating season for the ravens,”

And the knocking stood on my rooftop as the birds called their mates.

Behind I was in cooking, will this trample ever stop?

Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!

Frustrated and embittered, hoping ‘twas only the ravens,

The stomping lingered evermore


For I clambered up to the attic, ‘tis the noise - emphatic

Thundering and stomping louder every step of the ladder

Shoes were being thrown, more precisely, heels

I was resurgent and in relief --

‘Twas my child! My lovely little girl!

But, oh, how she will be castigated for playing with my shoes!

Only my little girl passionate for shoes and nothing more.

Poetry Terms Demonstrated: 



Hope I win!!

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