Your Grace, your parents are holding a dinner. One tonight I hear
Come now, I’ll run your bath, for the time is growing near
Is the water deep enough? Does the water temperature suffice?
I am glad it does, your Grace, I’ll leave you to your own devices.
Theodore good heavens! Do not cross the landing in a towel
Do you have no modesty at all? Why, this behaviour is simply foul
Your hair is dripping down your back. Oh Theodore, this will not do
For goodness sake don’t frown at me, things don’t revolve around you.
I cannot please Mother and how it is breaking my heart
Why are we all the more contended, when we are apart?
Her controlling ideas frustrate me, she does not give a damn;
I pray that Mother releases my strings, sad puppet that I am.
©Sophie Bowns 2011-2014