Written by: Jennifer Ratcliffe

My ship has not bubbled
beneath the eer' of my moat,
but battles come
I will be done,
and my queendom shall be sunk.

What will the others pronounce,
as they measure me gram for ounce,
and the people will fly me home
to misfortune bay?

Will my anchor last the living
till they sail the days?

I'll whisper you my pennies.
I'll carve out the trove,
but in it you'll not find the names.

Trust in empty spaces
and geld insanity,
it'd be without these tools
there we'd see.