Whose wine is it, anyway?

A Borivali slow, Was on platform four, Being young and swift, With least bit of strain, I boarded the train. There wasn't place to sit, So amidst the uproar, I stood at the door. An aged lady of seventy-four, Indulged us in a tale of yore. Of a frightful night, When her entire world, Was ruthlessly hurled, Into fear and plight, Into treacherous gore, A tale so abhor. with fine detail, She narrated her tale, And had us engrossed, Our minds embossed, She was a slave, Who tried to save, Her body frail, Which was put for sale. "A young girl of thirteen I was", she said "Physically alive but mentally dead. I was sold like cattle, My modesty stripped, soul ripped, My insides would rattle, As I would be led, To a different bed. In words I cannot convey, From where I drew strength one day, During the dastardly act, I took my chance and attacked. I fled the scene, And ran all day, Tried to escape far away. Partially clothed or un...

Can someone tell the folks upstairs That their floor is my ceiling. They stomp about, Scream and shout. In a fleet, They drag their feet. They tap dance in their hall, And cause my crockery to fall. While they boisterously shake, I'm forced to stay awake. They slam their doors, and I settle scores, By returning a 'thud', Which goes unheard. And finally when they clamber to bed, I thank my stars and think in my head, Those noisy wrecks, Are a pain in our necks, I would have loved them more, Had they lived on another floor.