This poem tumbles through a surreal nursery, where idioms curdle and lullabies unravel. A fair lady shapes gold from dust, the Muffin Man kindles fire instead of flour, and flying pigs signal impossible beginnings. What starts in whimsy ends in quiet ruin—a cradle of contradictions where even patty cakes fall. Here, the rhythm is real, but the meaning slips, keep your options open.

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“Ashes in Drury Lane”

My fair lady builds in dust,

Worth her weight in gold.

The Muffin Man on his lane,

Not my cup of tea.

The cow jumps over the moon,

When those piggies fly.

We sing hush, little baby—

Damsel in distress.

Baking me a patty cake,

Cat’s in the cradle.

A pocket full of posies,

Elephant in room.

“Ashes in Drury Lane” is a stitched lullaby for grown-ups—where comfort rhymes with collapse, and nursery stories grow teeth.

It’s an inventive layered fable stitched from nursery rhymes and idioms. The 7/5 syllable rhythm layers the story beneath.