The wrathful ward

Ingrid was an angry girl, her eyebrows ever in a surl.

She terrorised and thrashed around and made the most appalling sound.

She castigated, snarled and stared; no governess was quite prepared

For how her rage would manifest. It came when she was getting dressed,

Or taking tea, or in the park. It was most daunting in the dark.

But for some reason none could guess, she was quite calm when in a mess

And covered head-to-toe in mud, or crème Anglaise, or nursemaid’s blood.

There was no basis for her wrath, save one: she did not like the bath.