by Nick Gisburne
She brings him tea and pretty little cakes,
The height of hospitality and joy,
But one more sullen shrug is all takes
To liberate her loathing for the boy.
She warns him she is not to be abused,
Despite his pater’s status in the court.
Civility should never be confused
With tolerance for one so small, so short.
The whipping chair awaits him if he whines,
Authority invested in her hands.
Abandoning her bitterness, she shines.
His fears, his tears, suggest he understands.
The etiquette is noble. He is not.
Before the dawn he plans to have her shot.
