He sits in his mighty chair
Thinking he is fair.
To infinity he stares,
Waiting for a queen, he says.
He looks around his lair,
Never goes outside for air,
And solitude doesn’t care;
Queens don’t visit hidden dens.
He opens his eyes
But believes in his lies.
In silence, he cries.
His throne is a fantasy,
His crown made of plastic,
But he thinks looks fantastic,
And I’m not being sarcastic.
The obsolete king patiently awaits,
For the queen with his wanted traits,
His life he happily complicates.
Queens are far and few,
Their titles hold zero power.
I rather be like a sunflower,
And live my life by the hour.
Oh! king sitting complacent alone
In a beautifully painted gold throne.
Your odds of company are close to none,
In a kingdom made of simple women.
Imperfect creatures that don’t need crowns,
Who have fought to not vow down,
Who without fear will give you a frown.
If you must name us, we are goddesses not queens.
B. Meza (C) 1/2017