She leached stridence from her offsprings’ illness.
Her energy felt like math & shrillness.
Her greed needed the badge of a martyr.
To be well, they did need to outsmart her.
Two made it out & one also made up.
Sadly, one stayed; & still, with poison sups.
All her patients now gone or dying.
All her happiness tied up in crying.
She was a twisted Florence Nightingale.
Now, all she has is grief to feed her wail.
L.B.Stowe 