She is the gold by the deterring throne,
her pillows weight as slavers on her bed;
as a reward for calling out the dead
they set her liver chained to the stone.
A pawn dictates the menu for our queen,
and sets the tone of makeup on her face;
what used to be her beauty took the place
of dirt under a grass of made-up green.
Struggling with a hurricane of posh
her will resists, her mind diverse and black
in kingdoms banned and torturing spheres,
afoot on a terrain molded on dosh
knights on a spear, alone against a hack
of silvery applause and hollow cheers.