H.J. Shreeve (26/5/1987 / Hobart, Tasmania)

She dares not let the world hear her speak,
She's getting thin and looking meek,
A grey hair is splitting in her widows peak
She lays idle in the month of June.

Her hands are cracked and stained from mud,
although she bathes in lathered suds
There's a little of me inside her blood
She lays idle in the month of June 

She carries child at her old age,
She's stuck inside her fleshy cage,
Her father birthed her insidious rage
She lays idle in the month of June.

They locked her in a cell up high,
The crime of seeking suicide
Some women they are born only to die,
She lays idle in the month of June.

One day, I know, I'll see her soon,
How I loathe the month of June,
We'll met again come the next new moon,  
I won't forget her, idle in the month of June.