I’ll find you if I choke
In smoke ...
My Joy my toy my Joy my toy my Joy JOY JOY
My head’s on fire!
’Tis memories that burn.
Better to crumble in a tower of flame
Than sit with ghosts awaiting your return.
How could anyone crumble in a tower of flame, Judy wondered. Oh, well, she supposed it was just a lot of melancholy words jumbled together to give the reader the creeps. Certainly she was not going to give Emily Grimshaw the satisfaction of knowing that it had impressed her.
“With the poet’s permission,” she looked up and said, “I would take out a few lines and then type the poem on a clean sheet of paper.”
“I have the poet’s permission,” Emily Grimshaw replied shortly. And, after a pause, “What lines would you take out?”