(Or: The Burden of a Service Sub with a Titanic Tool)

Oh, poor lil duckie, hear his plight,
A service sub, both day and night!
To Madam Nora, he kneels with grace,
His body? Her throne. His will? Erased.

She snaps her fingers—he knows the drill,
“Come, my pet—now, stay real still.”
She seats herself, she sips her tea,
While duckie’s used creatively.

But oh, oh dear! There’s one great hitch,
A giant, massive, monstrous… glitch.
His cursed tool—so thick, so long,
A relic built for greek myth songs!

A foot? Oh no. Two feet? Try three.
It won’t behave! It hangs so free!
It thuds the floor! It blocks the path!
It ruined a chair! (Madam just laughed.)

She said, “This tool is mine, my dear.
For any use—let’s make that clear!”
She lends him out, she shares with glee,
A toy, a seat, a sturdy tree!

One guest arrived and gasped in shock,
“Is that a rope? A staff? An elephant’s cock?”
Another used it just last week,
To hang her coat— OH WHAT A FREAK!

Poor duckie sighs, accepts his fate,
To serve, obey, and accommodate.
A tool, a toy, a piece to lend,
His usefulness will never end.

So when you see him, bow your head,
For duckie’s life is service-bred.
And should you need a stand, a pole?
Madam will rent him—just pay the toll.

She walks where echoes still remain,
soft footprints pressed in stone and flame.
A voice once hushed, now rising strong,
a chorus built from silent songs.

The ink of history fades too fast,
but she is more than just the past.
She is the present, bold and bright,
the hands that shape the coming light.

Not just a name, not just a tale,
not just a face behind a veil—
she is the fire, the storm, the sea,
the force that bends what’s meant to be.

So speak her story, say it loud,
let every name be strong and proud.
Not one month, nor just one page—
but every breath, every age.