I'm writing my stage play and hope to run a partial script by you all soon.

The imagination is my muse.
It cajoles and torments the heart to strike up different emotions to suit its fancy, that I would write accordingly.
So i am what you would term a tormented artist..
I'm swamped with an avalanche of new words as soon as i wake up from sleep each day.
From the sublime into the conscious. That's the time.
I thought, no more picture books. No more children's for a while. Just a peaceful stage play of revenge and murder.
And then today, these words came to me: It's just a silly old thing and here they are still very clumsily put: because I haven't had a chance to rearrange anything:

There was a very old woman

so old and so alone

and sitting on her own

in her nightgown of gold,

She had hairs on her chin

and on the glint of her skin

and warts could be found

from an unwashed mound

in her deep secret ground.

She went to get some water

and she fell and screamed

oof, oof,

then she tripped over a spider

and she screamed again

oof, oof,

The spider got scared and

cursed her bad

He called his friends

for a crisis plan, it was the

end and they were

not big hardy men

oof, oof,

went the old woman,

oof, oof,

oof, oof and oof, oof

She thought,

why not murder the spiders

and boil them in a pot.

But the spiders packed

their webs, all it took was

a quick sticky dab

and then they migrated

into a corner

where the old woman

lost them assunder.

Only one cobweb had

to be rescued

and that was the one

the spiders had built

from an unwashed mound

in the old woman's

deep secret ground

and when the spiders

tried to save this cobweb

with the aid of a sickle

and something of a tickle

the old woman jumped

and hopped, and

kicked and oofed

and without a thought,

fell into her cooking pot.

- susan abraham -