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Orchestrated they succumb onto her board scene ~ As success thrills the ordained Queen of mean—poet

Once upon a time,  there was a Queen with a magic flute in her throat
Beknownst to all the villagers as the  P i e d   P i p e r e s s  
Without losing any more of the days sun she grips her baton, conducts 
her subjects, the mimes chosen the days before in  fairgrounds 
of the reginal variant, known for oppression and blues at the rivers 
edge,   called   the  M i s s i s s i p p i   Delta
With vocals of an operatic soprano, she has invested in orchestrating 
her creatures  into a misguided effort with her prestigious lures 
flouting her now rejects fit for duty with unspoken dialogue then
she doses them with harshly syncopated jazz 
Notes undulate in polyrhythms, rhythmic rituals,
razz mataz, lips on her magical flute made of pewter—preordained 
for her cruelest intention of wicked ambitions
Tamir trills, tremolos easily execute, and her Sonic Blues 
have spread its depression, demoralizing unsuspectedly
as the conductor of snark sends her deepest dark 
sympathies and peasant’s call for the release of the hard labor 
as a favor for the flutist, clad in rags and no food
the villagers are left with a repressive fate 
as she catapults  hypnotic tones over the cobblestones 
and as anger unfolds for owed to her is the gold for favors 
rendered that she’d give him his cut—as of yet, 
the pirate Jean Lafitte has not, adrift in the Gulfstream! 
The pirated English ship, The Golden Hind
he had robbed the Spanish galleons of their treasures to bring back 
to the Queen and he has failed, blinded by arrogance, bloated with greed 
Once again, the Piperess raises her wand while she choruses
and improvises a somber dirge depression, to impart 
a punishment on her subjects, one that will change their decent minds, 
and instead of being saddened by your grief you’re maddened, and
you’ll see that mine is the right way, she lauds                                       
As she looks into her trumeau mirror dry tears do not drip, 
with all beauty gone so is her vanity, what’s left is loathsome hurt,   
a trompe l'oeil  rest assured an opportunity forced insanity and
now only the children hear her music, starved, 
orphaned, in  alley's afraid and left to eat the dirt
She’s every queen in one, sentimentally known 
as the forceful dispassionate of what’s mean
She drinks her shot of bourbon for determination 
and through French doors and into her hidden
blood-stained quarters, décor of twisted foliage tors
and the Pied Piperess sends her conscripts
down to the sea caves delivering  threats 
to sink Lafitte’s ship and his enslaved children
He gives into the fluted Queen to keep his prized possession 
and hands her the gold, and he’s at the helm, the children returned, 
still she keeps her muses beneath her thumb infecting them 
with hatred as they succumb and keep them on 
the board of shame, she taps them on their heads and 
tells them, good job! to show her depth of corruption 
and so there is no happyeverafterings here,
for such blind power never wanes I fear 
If you're going to defy authority, 
if you're going to go against your Queen
You must do it for the greater good 
Be your own mind and mistress for p o e t i c  j u s t i c e
use the brain that God gave you, to channel that energy
so that you can accomplish your goal
When authority becomes tyranny, it's your duty 




Tors: decorative motif consisting of twisted foliage, ribbon or string of pearls
Trompe l'oeil: illusionistic perspective representation
Trumeau mirror: mirror set into the woodwork between two windows or doors
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