Mary Lennox

A poor lass of India,

Whose mother partied,

And father in the army,

Both gone without a hint,

And the little wench left alone,

To a nurse and servants,

Who died short after or ran away,

Because of surging epidemic,

Leaving the girl spoiled and tantrumic,

Temporarily taken in,

By pope and family,

Then sent to uncle,

For permenant care,

But found reservation,

However provisions were given,

But true love was never shown,

Slowly the atmosphere changed,

Because of dames and maids,

Of good nature who helped,

In showing life to the wench,

Who never saw light,

Finally a day came,

When uncle noticed her,

And cousin too,

Thanks to the mother of twelve,

Who prompted the uncle,

To give heed to her and son,

And from her Mary’s love to live,

In life as a typical child!