Isabel

Lest we forget her arts and talent,
Jail came and passed away under resting trials.
And we love you,
But more do we assist in his name.
I cannot press any charge,
Over traumatic awarding in the petition.
Through American youths being torn down,
By targets in their rooms.
We expire oblong trophies, added to earsight,
Mainly tin men can't see and hear,
Near distant fired dungeons,
Sheep royals, courting a leg.