The nature of her art is in her wits,
Sure, sharp, subtle and coy,
It soothes and raises beleaguered spirits,
Who doth her comic arsenal employ,
To batter down the barricades,
Of seriousness and solemnity,
Though raucous her jokes are ever made,
In the spirit of love and amity,
Stoicism petrifies the soul,
Makes it alone,
Converting passionate spirits,
In to sombre heart's of stone.
Reticence is good enough when feelings start to dip,
But humour is much better for stoking comradeship.