Jane had a face that launch'd a thousand books,
Ones like Pride and Prejudice and Zombies.
Because her sister's pen show'd that her looks
Drove the poor thing to write those comedies
Of manners when, alas! she couldn't catch
A caro sposo. Who but a hopeless
Spinster would write, at age fifteen, a batch
Of tales about becoming fingerless
By eating up one's own appendages?
Those tight-shut lips were holding back stories
That have brought legions of admiring throngs,
Who laughing, declare her countless glories.
But they're so fanatical, I suppose,
Because they pity her spinsterhood woes.
Happy 200th birthday to the "darling child" of one whom I ardently admire and love!
Ironic poem, based in part on this article: http://www.nytimes.com/2007/04/01/weekinreview/01mcgrath.html?_r=2&ref=janeausten
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