Placid, secular wretchings have held a hilt upon a building we've since had our city agree and seal all of our holy hopes on.
Wobbegone travels hadn't held a torch to all of our second city queens who held their beautiful social justice cloaks upon brooches tied on our heart strings with pins tipped with poison.
It sings... her voice. Our champion.
She sings, but still it stings to know she'll have to die on our behalf because we can't handle a golden cow... Let alone: her calf.