Oh, how Emmaline did write,
Her touch to the parchment;
How she thought it was a plight,
She forever a lent.

Plastered walls encompassing
As she avidly wrote.
White curtains to indite,
Details to she would gloat.

How she and they sat: cat and dog,
Hammers striking the strings.
Its tone creating a sound bog,
Words ones to ever sing.

Books stacked there effortlessly,
Beauty with a quote.
The animals, with ever chi,
Spied for an anecdote.

Yet, how literature was bent,
Her quilt now forsaken;
How they would forever relent:
They never awakened.