by Nick Gisburne
Poor Heidi. Poor Joanna. Poor Christine.
How strange the day, the drama, for them all.
Three women; only one can play the queen.
They tremble as their mentor makes the call.
Poor Heidi holds the rose too high, too tight,
Too straight, without the elegance he planned.
And poor Joanna, lovely in the light,
Projects a poise too powerful, too grand.
The last in line is perfect for the part.
Of all the sisters, poor Christine is best,
A presence to electrify the heart,
A choice it would be folly to contest.
The curtain falls. Behind, it poor Christine.
The moment of her death completes the scene.
