-
In deepest dark she holds her court,
one royal hand on royal wart.
And on her mossy bed of mould,
lie bones and baubles in the cold.
On these she seats her derriere,
our queen the fairest of the fair.
In days of yore she'd count her loves,
her fingers white beneath her gloves.
Both gods and clods would pay her court
from every sea and every port,
before she spurned and sent away
the god who swore she'd rue that day.
And lo, the knight who comes this eve,
but takes her life then takes his leave.
The prize he's won is carried on
his lady love in Galadon
who dances on, while bleeds unseen
our dear forgotten kobold queen.
- 2nd March 1996
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