With wings upon each page, her ink flows quick
and with her churlish lips she wrote her book.
Behind her gleamed a road of yellow brick
that shone with choice of words that aptly shook.
A rainbow thus she found and sampled, quite.
But dirty dishes, kids are small cartoons.
Her life is disappointing_she’s a sight!
And he has left for woman or saloon.
Such sadness when the madness did arrive.
And, sadder still, the choice she made was clear.
His pudgy, fat balloons resound and sigh
but mother’s voice no longer will he hear.
Her story older than that pot of gold
she won but was too blind or sick to hold.
(Shakespearean Sonnet written in iambic pentameter with rhyme scheme abab;cdcd;efef;gg.)