Ashen hair encircles her head,
And a face that could do with a wash.
Yet above the chipped teeth and the grimy brown hands,
Sits, throned, a crown of gold.
A waltzing skirt, trimmed with ribbons of dust,
A bruise of an amethyst hue,
She mutters the stories to ***** grey walls,
The girl with a crown of gold.
The peasants awake, splitting heads, withered throats,
From their bedbugs and blankets and beer.
The princess stands firm, she will not be moved
From her crack-mirrored bathroom seat.
The peasants are worse than usual this morn,
But you have to expect that from them.
The mirror reflects, in its own shattered way
The torn, crushed crown of gold.
There once was a prince, in this faery land.
A baby too brave for his good,
A trip away, up the silent back stairs.
-
They can't batter his new crown of gold.
The streets try to drag her back into the world,
But she only sees carpets of red.
In a fairytale land where no evil is seen,
Sometimes paper's more precious than gold.