Moxie

Moxie
In the stiff upper lip of a rainy morn,
She finds the grit that steadies the storm,
A spark of pluck that won’t be quelled,
A quiet fire that dares to excel.

She walks the cobbled lane with head held high,
Meeting doubt with a steadfast sigh,
Her moxie hums like a brass band’s beat,
Turning every setback into a steady feat.

So raise a cup of tea to the brave and bold,
To the spirit that refuses to grow old,
For moxie is the heart’s own cheer,
A British grit that perseveres year after year.