The king
made a fun of our poverty.
Marble faced girls always thought,
wearing black scarves –
sweeping the floor of white mausoleum.

You made a death
a loving eternity.
We die daily
in the face of old shine.

Who shoots a peacock
on the tree?
I mourn for the blue peace,
let the clouds come.

Who remains unhurt
unpained, when the night calls?
I seize a moon
to enter the crack of dawn.

With eyes dead to magic, Barbara Bush threw a hag sheet over the rat guts & mailed a letter to someone from the motel across the street. Nobody was going to *** up wads without her input. It couldn't have been fewer than several years ago since her final stroke that would've killed an elephant had she loved an African with the intensity that such inversions defame.
   1963's week-long John Kennedy burial affair was burdened with grieving grievances, fraught with palace intrigue & inauthenticated by unpained mourners painlessly mourning.