Early morning <br />Pastry-filling-crust-oven <br />Pastry-filling-crust-oven <br />Pies churned out nineteen to the dozen. <br /> <br />5 dozen meat pies lay upon the work surface <br />Line after line of pies <br />marching to there doom <br />Like soldiers <br />Every pie representing a human. <br /> <br />She looked down upon her fingers <br />They were worked to the bone <br />Her knees were shaking under the pressure <br />She was sick of pies, <br /> <br />But continued she did <br />Because she loved her husband so. <br /> <br />Late afternoon <br />8 dozen pies now <br />getting closer to their demise <br />A steady fleet of customers trickled into the high street shop <br />Ordering pie after pie <br />and eating soldier after soldier <br />When stock grew few <br />Mr Todd offered a special discount or two. <br /> <br />Sweeny had told her to never interrupt his work <br />Otherwise, he might. Slip. <br />But she had worked for 9 long hours <br />And hadn't seen her beloved for what seemed like decades <br />The rickety stairs creaked <br />She halted ready to knock <br />She was too desperate, <br />She flung the door open with the greatest ease. <br /> <br />And she soon became a soldier. <br /> <br />(This is a poem about Sweeny Todd's wife (who I invented for the sake of this poem))<br /><br />Llewelyn Griffiths<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/mrs-todd/
