by Nick Gisburne
Curator of a thousand cryptic rules
For this, for that, for anything at all
She sharpens her manipulative tools
Abuse on which her spite can always call
With reverence for no one but herself
Her empire is a boiling sea of rage
If sympathy sat, smiling, on a shelf
Tomorrow she would kill it in a cage
Corrupted and corroded to the last
Emotions are her battered, broken toys
A swarming horde, maliciously amassed
To meddle with the meagre minds of boys
She laughs to see them struggle to survive
A terror at the tender age of five
