A poem I wrote inspired by the film

Enid Blyton
Wasn’t all that nice
She was rather frightening
Her story of fantasy and play
Was something she never portrayed
She thought of her children as a nuisance
Her husband as an intrusion
She invited her child fans for afternoon tea and play
Whilst her children stayed in the nursery all day
She never got over her father leaving
Maybe she was still grieving?
But thats not a good enough reason

She wrote her books by the dozen
Writing everyday
She allowed an hour for her children
Then sent them away

Hard callice woman was she
She climbed on the ladders to reach the fruits of the tree
Then she fell and conveniently and lost their unborn baby

When her brother turned up
She had nothing to say
The news of her mothers death left her in complete disarray
She ended up dying in the same way
Losing her mind along the way
Still selling millions of books a year
These are the stories from my childhood I will always hold dear.