In her heart, her inner art was shining; it's what made her smart.
Played the part, a winner's what you're finding, when you take apart.
A shaky start, but we all knew, it's hard to make a sudden move.
It's far, but in the past she grew. Her name was Jane, let me reprove:
New York was neither here nor there, a land of men....just count 'em.
A mountain we could never scare, misogynistic fountain.
Just like the wild west that idled best when women scurried..
A mild mess; in spite of this, Ira's vest had been kept dirty.
Ira was a photograph that Jane had held real close..
The relative she treasured most. Like her, she kept the rules exposed.
A garden of explicit foes, this "wall street"...a familiar scene.
Alone, like 1883 when Ira and her gun were seen.
She wouldn't scream, no, not our Jane, she filtered thoughts through teeth serene.
She saw them all as wilting flowers, tilting on their cynic schemes.
With "gun in hand", she pedaled past the petals ghast vindictive dreams,
Through nettle wrapped stilettos, she tore holes in cryptic seams.
And so it seemed, Jane would bring her inner wild west.
Within her, iron rests, one breath between the thinner dire stress.
Fiends will fall, desire leads to death - these women's rationale.
Jane had plans to build Walls around the Street -- Ira shot up O.K. Corall.
Jane heard the powers fell...there was no denying what they'd seen done.
THIS WAS THE COST OF FREEDOM. Why not her if there's only room for one?
Arriving, she glances down at Ira with honor, "Of course I'd bring her!"
Knowing, in a world of men, she'd be a modern day gunslinger.

--

I hope this speaks to you, yes YOU! I believe in metaphor and rhyme, from in the center of the nursery. I believe they are beyond language and will, if we are allowing, help us share/be fair. I believe in you; believe in yourself.

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