A queen they call me and I suppose there is reason:
gold on my feet, gold in my bed.
It’s in my ears, flowing down my thighs
and crested on the crown perched atop my head.
They even say only gold can make love to me,
and it’s true I’ve kissed inanimate men,
none of which knew how to light the fire given a match.
They didn’t now, they’ll never then.
I’ve lived this throne and my mother before me.
Those poor ragged women would bleed to be in my place
as I wave my hands and cross these soft legs,
but, please, why ever don’t you look at my face?
Kings beside me grin with greed like jackals.
What am I but an ornament hooked still to his bedpost?
I’m given the jewels, the gems- women, don’t ever ask.
You may call me Queen, if only you knew the name I lost.
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