In England's realm, a girl of twenty-three, A lover of the stage, as wild as can be. Her heart a playground for the young and free, A Victorian child's soul, dancing with glee.
Her passion for the boards, a burning flame, She acts like Dickens' urchins, known by name. In tattered frocks, she plays with childish grace, Inhabiting a world from a bygone place.
Her accent, false, like Emma Watson's charm, An act to please, a skillful, clever arm. To gain attention, hearts, and accolades, She bends the truth, in masquerade parades.
She claims 200 books read in just a year, Short stories count, right? It's not crystal clear.
In desperate haste to prove herself grand, A myriad of accomplishments she's planned. But we know her secret, though she tries to hide, Netflix binges are where she takes her pride.
Candlestick, she says, means candle, how quaint! Tilting it by curtains, we fear it's no saint. A potential fire hazard, we hold our breath, With her antics, danger seems close to death.
Though flawed and fractured, like a cracked glass vase, Her dreams and whimsy, they do find a place.
May she learn, as years sweep her along, That truth and earnestness will make her strong. And in the limelight's glow, she'll finally see, The brightest star she'll be when she's just "she."
