The Pied Piperess

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