There’s an empty room filled with things but nobodies anywhere.
The lavish peace, the British saw when they still had the heir.
But now I see forgotten things locked away in there.
There’s a man in red elegance with the beauties of the day.
And some lonesome awful peacefulness that’s green, and blue, and gray.
In the corner was a pink and white striped couch, so elegant, so gay.
I can see the dying queen sitting in the forest.
Her body is so pale in the shade, where she’ll forever rest.
At least in this solitude she is looking her best.
The sad truth is that I think she is the whore est.