Gypsy Queen of Ireland, green-eyed bore
Beach pebbled throne and your court the sea
Let's waltz on waters and leave this shore
For a wave to blanket us eternally
Rid yourself of the children and maids
Plenty of the latter the castle will hold
Of the former, their lives will be made
When I pour the hot clay in your mold
Like dandelion fuzz—the fireworks.
The clay drips from the mold, down her thigh
She rises my queen but walks with a jerk
Good heavens, “she's lame” and goodbye
Life has dealt her a terrible hand, or sole?
I pity you, truly yours, this crippled soul.