The Son

Jack and Jill received a thrill
When Mama’s room they entered
For on the floor, forevermore
There lay a being splintered.

Mother Goose had gotten loose
And turned to curds and whey
And left a shell here where she fell
For them to mourn today.

Jack resembles, growing sick
The pallid face like candlestick
Jill, like Cole, calls for her bowl
And breakfast does leave thick.

Their father, Peter, always beat her
‘Till at the end- he kept her neater
He put her in an oak-wood shell
And there she rested very well.

But Jack spat, knowing that
The truth was kept in lock
So hickory eyes stayed mesmerized
By ticking of the clock.

The End

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