Little Berenice at five was put upon the stage
She kept in step just like the rest
As if she were a pro.
Looking like a flower bed, traditionally so
The sweetest smile upon her face, embroidery and lace
From head to toe.
Then came the awaited number
The barmaids softly tread, balancing upon their heads
All things breakable.
The rhythm fast, the maidens stepped upon
A pedestal, obliged to twirl and that small girl
Was quite remarkable.
Then came along a gust of wind, that bully
Entered in, and fixed upon the tiny one
To topple and to shatter.
Berenice continued on as if it didn’t matter
She didn’t miss a beat, with dimples in her cheek
Until the spectacle expired.
Stepping from the podium into her mother’s arms
She wept with tears of shame, assuming her own blame
The roses in her cheeks afire.
We gathered round to give her the ovation she required
‘Child, it’s not as if you’ve sinned, t’was foul play by the wind’
Lest she never dance again.