Limerick

A woman in love with rhyme
Seeks but never finds the time
To give to poetry her all
For always a child will call
A woman in love with rhyme.

This mother of a measure
Thought to versify a cure.
She found housework to be a waste
So she slaved away in haste,
This mother of a measure.

She stole away to create
Thieving hours was her fate,
For children, sweet, but desirous;
Yes, they put up quite a fuss.
Now, steal away to create.

She just sits down, up now quick.
Spared not for a limerick.
Pen back, now paper, aside.
Return later to confide.
She just sits down, up now quick.