Sweet Emily

She sits at the top of a tower

and likes to drink her tea.

Her mind tends to wander,

but she’s never far from me.

Her eyes are bright

and her life takes flight

when she sings.

There is a magic in her words,

in the way she’s to be heard.

She casts her spells with fire,’

blank is her world fraught with ire.

Her anger is a blanket

that covers the mountains of her pain.

From her tower she’ll sit

and she’ll sing

and she’ll take each and every thing.

Her arms are cold these days

because tall men take

and young men break

and age makes you weak

and every man is fake.

Her tea grows hotter

as her soul gets colder.

Her tower seems higher

and she grows older.

The men that serve her

seem far lower

and the times will change forever,

Sweet Emily.