ten apples glistened in a basket, one of them was bad
the stepmother seethed in anger, a wicked witch gone mad
she could have made a soufflé, she could have baked a pie
some recipe that didn't call for arsenic and lye
but rage and insecurity possessed her tortured mind
blindness to reflection sees no method to unwind
her parenting skills were negligent, her empathy obtuse
her compassion and her loving heart were never put to use
self respect and confidence were the sparks she couldn't nourish
with a cup of understanding or a dash of faith and courage.
nine apples remain in a basket, one of them's been had
her promise was ceded to anger, and now she's only sad.
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