by Nick Gisburne
A spirited, sophisticated bride
Her blood bestows unquestionable taste
She finds one simple wedding wish denied
And lays the sacred spectacle to waste
Insisting seven sisters be her maids
The scrolls of state, unswerving, give her four
But seven sweet psychotics, and their blades
Leave butchered bodies bleeding on the floor
The groom, a sorry, spineless, slave to myth
Was always weak, beyond what she could bear
His murder stains the ancient monolith
On which a vow of hate she stands to swear
Unmarried, though the throne is not her right
Let no one doubt her fervour for the fight
