The Dragoness

Tongue tied in the face of such total denial
Unsure what to say as she squirms to fit in
Contorting the truth ’til it matches desire
She wriggles and struggles to conquer our whim

The pile ever growing, her hoard has been threatened
Not ev’ry dear item surviving the cull
Our backs strained and suffered, this one is the seventh
We’ve moved her rag fact’ry from Burnley to Hull

We stand here, an army of moral supporters
Poke holes in each argument, watering wails
That presage the tantrum still bubbling under
With glimpses of brimstone and manicured nails

I’ve gathered my forces, reluctant acceptance
Complying with wishes, she feigns every mood
And snatches at fav’rites we’d bagged, boxed and bundled
But left unattended while loading the boot

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