It was gently pointed out to me that the poem I posted previously was
not in iambic pentameter and I am willing to admit that I'm a novice in
knowing such things. After the careful and patient guidance of my
sweetheart, I have put the poem in the form it was meant to truly
reflect.

The flour dusts her fingertips and hair.
She's humming softly as she slowly stirs,
She mixes up the sweets we all prefer.
With care she stokes the fire to prepare;
Each fluffy orange meringue is made with care.
The kitchen fills with tasty-scented blurs.
Reminding one of sorrow's sweet-made cures
In the form of macaroons to share.

To us she gives a candied smile sincere
Allow us each the joy of what you bake.
She satiates each sweet tooth in Cyrene
Your pralines make our hearts just want to cheer
So shall we eat until our tummies ache.
For sweet Martina is the sugar queen!


Penned by my hand on the 11th of Ero, in the year 417 AF.