The Crooked Crown

The Crooked Crown

Once you were a kind child
I remember dearly, but

you did not open your heart, my Queen
when tears were in your Reign.

What keeps you from Hell, Your Highness
when the traitor dogs are at the opened door?

Have you not lost your mind to the burdens of office
doing the obligatory executions, openings
given to the hounds who tear the throats of freedom?

If you’ve lost your politicians, your
damn loyal pompous patricians
who strut across a platform
angling to brace a tyranny
suffering their madness upon the people
standing on their hind legs,
mighty and high on mole hills, with
no standing in the Great
Hall of Virtue, then, if you’re lost,
their words will echo well there
like the growls of vicious creatures.

What stays you from Hell that
you’d give the creatures audience to
pontificate for evil, for torture, for death.

Do they have standing in the History of Spit?
Are they not slime?

Ha! They’re artisans of treachery
who hang and admire their artwork
until they sell it for a bribe.

Let the loyal consorts save the Queen.
The elite effete have lost their sheep.

What a pretty throat
for the dogs to rip out

Do come in
the door is open.

— Douglas Gilbert

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