by Nick Gisburne
The feral fairies, brutal and berserk,
An army, built to bodyguard the queen,
Are paid a poxy pittance for their work,
And holler at the king, to vent their spleen.
“She treats us like we’re muck, or meat, or worse,
Her personal menagerie of slaves.
For all the wealth and riches in her purse,
We’re boiling at the way your wife behaves.”
The king is sympathetic to their plight.
He calls on deft diplomacy and tact.
“Return to me at sundown, here, tonight,
And I will have this queer conundrum cracked.”
They meet with him for payment, one by one.
His tally, those who live to spend it: none.
