Behind bars, Longing for free life I gave birth to my daughter, my world; Blotting out the fear of dying in dark Without a child; Who, I thought, would free me From these rusty tended bars of terror, The bars I preferred to being “free” Like my daughter, Who scorns my green fingers That she’s of script and pen; That I’m behind the times and her of dot-com. But she’s slanting to the pit! My girl’s disrobed her only mother Giving herself away, here and there, in marriage, Not once but, even in a harlot’s cloth, Jumping from one to another, Laughing at mine (of cushy hearts) as outmoded; That she rather, than to be in constraint, Be treasonous and die of my curse, And she’s perishing