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
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I Am Anaya
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