On Monday at noon
She comes into bloom,
Fushia and choppy, her hair.
She goes to the door
To begin her grand chore,
Of introducing a few ,or a pair.
The first one is brown
With curls and a crown,
Shes always the one who is boss.
She erects up a sheild
So we all can stay healed,
And noone suffers great loss.
Then llow braids look around
To see if shes found,
A crack for her to engage.
They dont let her peek
Because shes to weak
And sends her back to the cage.
A white light just lingers
But works through our fingers,
She can cover anyones shift.
She has the most power
To make us all cower,
If we tire, she gives us a lift.
The pink toes are so bare
When children need care,
Reassurance in that we trust her.
She gives us the break
That we can all take,
Napping in our sweet slumber.
Theres a mission demand
She shoots up her hand,
Volunteering, as our driver.
We all can retreat
As she takes the front seat,
Gray pavement and lines below her .
The blue one stays down
But she always comes round,
Empty and hollow inside.
Shes jingles her cup
And takes a hand up,
To gulp back and swallow her pride.
Theres one we hold back
Deep, angry and black,
A levy ready to break.
We keep her at bay
And watch what we say,
Tiptoe for everyones sake.
And then there is me
But me became we,
In August they put in a bid.
My hats started changing
My gingerness fading,
Painting the colors of DID.
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