This is a story,
not fabricated in the air.
There lived a woman up on the second story,
always filled with despair.
She was a walking stone,
was irritated by children's antics
and not to be provoked
or he shall be skinned to bone
There was dog estranged,
living in the corners of street's maze.
Pretty much full of rage,
He wasn't in someone's heart or page
Passing through the drain,
found a biscuit by lane
as he picked it up -
it rolled down the street main.
Rolled, rolling, rolls away,
Oh! What a bad day.
Stopped at the foot of the the lady,
She stamped it and walked her way.
Following her, he found her house,
shunned away as if a pest or a big mouse.
He wagged his tail,
outside her house
To his astonishment ,
she cried alone
not to mention,
no one was at home.
All by herself,the poor soul .
Her door was open
an invitation to her sorrows.
The innocent dog understood her feelings,
and bought her a towel.
She broke her shell,
and treated him with a biscuit
And wipped the tears
Never was she found again without a smile.
There was always a soul,a friend
Out to catch her was her dog
if she fails to mend.
Happy was the house,
and happy was the dog.
Who knew what could a rolling biscuit bring upon?
