Prude

In quiet lanes where primroses bow,
A prude does walk with measured tread,
Her gaze averse to any row,
She shields her soul from idle thread.

She sips her Earl Grey, steeped in calm,
While neighbours chatter, loud and free,
Yet she declares, with gentle qualm,
‘Decorum’s grace is best for me.’

She frowns at jokes that skirt the kerb,
At laughter spilling past the gate,
But in her heart a quiet verb
Does whisper: ‘Joy can regulate.’

She prefers the theatre’s muted cheer,
Where propriety takes centre stage,
And though the world may call her austere,
She finds her peace in measured gauge.

So let the prudish blossom bloom,
In British poise, a modest plume.