The Crown of Marigold

Now stand you on the top of happy hours— Or so the mirrors 'round your glass realm show Man of beauty, charm, and stunning power, I will cackle as you are brought down low. For though you claim a crown of gilded wind And stride upon a path of shining zinc What are you but a foolish child chagrined Content in pretending to wisely think? Fall to your knees, young Tudor King, and plead For mercy from the crown of marigold Only to find that thy high pride shall bleed As all your pyrite sword has slain, tenfold, For as young Cath'rine sits upon her throne She waits to dine upon your heart of stone.