Keeping Her Head

Great Scot delusions of grandeur!
The merry queen with her rosary,
her entourage, ooh la la funereal
shroud and veil; her head bound high.

There’s that sparkle in her eyes,
witticisms, critiques; she’s not meek.
The English parade won’t wrangle her.
She’s Mary Queen of freaking Scots.

Would they? Could they? -silence her lips.
She’s moistened the utmost in utterance.
Tongue laced in French, Latin and bitter English -
that pretty queen squeezed her hands for them.

Her lips in prayer, witnesses wrote,
as her head rolled like a football after
three chops. They found her hair gray-
a wig she wore; fair Mary of Scots.

8/27/2021

deathfree verse

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