The purple curtains No longer look royal. They are shaking from the pounding Of people outside. Hundreds of them. They stomp their feet And yell of death. They enter, and Drag the king, shrieking, To his end.
Mice scurry across the room And devour the crumb.
She has been stripped of her ball gown, her humanity, and is left, nothing but a mewling child, grasping and looking for her prince, but he has left her. She is like us. Lori Brookshire Abraham Lincoln President no more. He sits in his normal house That is painted blue. He watches his 13-inch TV While Mary Todd slaves Over a boiling pot Of chicken soup.