There once was a girl with a fiddle, who swayed patternless like a riddle. Yet with each place she’d go, her arms akimbo, she’d end up right back in the middle...
Of the world she’d wax ever poetic, in which all her thoughts fit quite aesthetic. Not a tad apathetic, almost too energetic, her musings were pretty frenetic...
Her pace was, in skipping. Never once did she falter by tripping. No pause for farewells, as quick as gazelles, some thought her the wind gone by whipping...
A cake, so frosted over with the sweet, sweet cream of denial and fantasy.
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