A count upon fingers, too revealing.
A question of numbers, concealing
your thoughts, in muddled rhymes.
You’ve done this too many times.

Sainted first, poor saint Jane,
never sure, but ever to blame.
take the power, relieve control,
but weaving webs takes its toll.

The second saint, poor mouse.
Out of pocket and out of house.
So in need of a kindly shoulder,
so afraid of being older.

And now, now we’re up to three,
Save another, if it’s up to me.
Seen so much, yet lived so little.
Falling short and standing tall.

But it can’t be done. Poor dear,
it’s been so long since you were here.
So much has changed, I’m not so strong,
I’ve not the strength to linger long.