You could say life without the wee lady has
less dividends and fewer moments with that
rare consensus she portentously breathes;
it is an easy summation of how she makes
dependencies and blesses fortunates with
sanctified smiles. So her majesty’s guests
play in fields of verdant green, there is an
air of noblesse oblige, an easy harmony
But wry views of a tearaway shrew who’ll
condemn space in singular adjectives with
adamant tyranny has angels flee on wings
roused rudely; then we learn who comforts
who - she is still the same we see, just as
sweet but a whole lot more needy
© 10 September 2013, I. D. Carswell
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