The morning mist makes not a sound
Queen Alice’s feet touch soft the ground
On either side her bed surround
Soft muslin drapes, quite thin.
Her eyes move slow from thing to thing
Her breakfast tray, the feast within
But in her spread no letters seen
She calls the messenger in.
“My Queen,” he starts, then his words trail
Away – she stares through muslin veil
“A strike, ma’am, in the Royal Mail,
Has caused us much chagrin!”
She smiles sweetly, and with no word
She grasps quite firm a nearby sword
“I strike you back!” is quickly heard
And his head falls in the bin.
Swan Meat 
Leave a comment