She rolls the dice and it's a seven,
In a game of chess, like an ace of spade.
She counts all the daggers you throw at her
And repays them with a dazzling smile and fresh blood.
A crown of Alexandrite, amethyst and azure,
A sceptre of gold, studded with silver,
A throne wrought with the iron of valour,
And an eye of ruby become hers in a glimmer.
When she walks, she erases all traces
Of the places she's seen, of all that was left.
When she smiles, she veils your amazed eyes
From arrays of tricks that await your demise.
A queen barely needs a title or fanfare
Yet her grip of power is an embellishment.
She won't let anyone call her "Your highness",
But will drag all with a leash down the trenches.
So beware, when you see such women passing;
Witches are fairy-tales but queens are not.
They are deadlier than the venom you know of,
Care to mock them, and they'll write you off.