For Brown Bread and Bed

Queen looks like The Dead, No served loved Brown Bread. With bread again lives Starts again to breathe, Her best at work gives, Not with anger seethes… Queen becomes True Head From tasted Brown Bread Starts guiding a spiv: “From Poor Rice stones sieve!” For ‘Brown’ not ‘White Bread’ ‘Dark’ not like ‘Bright Red’ Queen as much for bed; Die she would instead, When aches fight ones head Or blue eyes dark red, Good rest to health give: Sleep that makes one live… For Brown Bread and Bed, She’d like angels tread!