Muse, I regret you have retired away
To a land that never sees the day
Perhaps because it would give your immortal frame
Wracking convulsions to see the Lord and Dame
Pass to dust and be replaced by racketeering fools
Who have collected up your sisters as so many jewels
To disperse and throw before general swine
Who have taken up grapes meant to press for wine
Let them dry into raisins and crumble to dust
You would rather sleep, Muse, but wake you must!
A story needs be told of the last warrior brood
Who reveal their warring spirits in a teenager’s mood
The territorial lust felt by heroes of yore
Cannot be trampled away and forgotten, like more
Vainglorious stories of battles hard-won
With Gods who control the surf and the Sun
No, let our story close tight on a single lunch table
We will write an epic (though it is more of a fable)

The Sun stood proud, watching over the land
It had particularly blest with an excess of sand
The Sun grinned down with great yellow teeth—
Like golden sweet corn—at the youthful beneath
The Sun did not know that his look, with love
So kindly bestowed from the Sun up above
Did land much like fire on the finely-bared skin
Of the young folk beneath so that they burned within
Their blood that was heated by little of late
(As they learned to forget and regret what was great)
Did bubble and boil on that tumultuous day
That Fate saw a chance to once more have her way
The wheel of Fate, so akin to Religion,
Had rolled off alone and stealthily hidden
Fate saw in the warm blood of the young
A chance to return to her former fun

Fate walked among the youths, though none would see
(They had all exchanged eyes for a big-screen TV)
She called each by name, though none would hear
(For synthesized music they had traded an ear)
Fate saw blood bright red, rippling, ready to stain
She enticed to war but she enticed in vain
The children had been taught by psychology
That to stomp out emotion was to be truly free
That the heat of the desert was all they could know
Flowers are myths, like God and like snow,
So each child was contentedly safe in their seat
Despite Fate, and their blood, and the Sun’s smiling heat

Fate took up her wheel and began to slowly roll home
When she cursed at the sky and looked up to the blue dome
In a fain outline, pale as Fate’s chance,
Sat the Moon all worn from the star’s nightly dance
The Moon, being woman too, though steadier than Fate
Strolled her way through the sky when the hour was late
Though all of the people had flung Fate to the side
Proudly denouncing love, hate, and pride
The Moon was still worshipped by a bold few
Who walked out at night, whose tears made the dew
Tenderest few who under stars fell in love
Slipped into old ways like a caressing glove
Still wandered below and noticed the perfect arc
That the beloved Moon still made in the dark
The whispered kisses and smiles of fascination
Fueled the full Moon’s satiated elevation
When the Moon went down to a weakening sliver
She was powered by glances and by the particular shiver
That only occurs when lunacy comes together
With closeness in heart and a coolness in weather

Fate looked at her sister, so bulgingly complete
Who had not Fate’s power or Fate’s dancing feet
She screamed up at the daylight-peeking sphere
“How stay you up there, while my time down here
Is marked so near done that I cannot hardly make
A few impassioned teens beginning to bake
Start a miniature war like I used to do,
When my wheel strolled the sky beside the Sun and you?”
“Oh Fortuna,” the Moon sighed, “Your troubles are mine.
It used to be the sight of me got things out of line
When the Full Moon had arisen, out wolves would dart
The most macabre fantasies would enter the heart
Of chaste and wicked, and middling the same!
But now our powers are too little, too lame
We have been classified, the wolves all are tagged
The distinctions of wicked and chaste have been bagged
No one howls at me now,” the Moon here grew quiet,
“When I am full, they tell me to go on a diet.”

Fortuna could have wept to see her sister so low,
But she remembered that still in the sky could she go
While Fate wobbled about out of sight
Trying to reclaim (or establish) what was wrong and right
“But sister,” Fate said, “At least you stay in flight,
Be it day or Sunset or Sunrise or night.
Your powers outweigh mine greatly still
I beg you to help me, if you have the will.”
The Moon thought awhile, Fate slowly tires
Decides to leave the children to their lunchmeat and wires
When the Moon interjects in a motherly trill,
“I can share my power, and share it I will.
When the world began, to the Sun it was given
The task of food-growing and making a livin’
Fire was given to the people to heat
Their homes and their tools and their bread and their meat
My only duty besides providing a light
While the Sun took a well-deserved rest at night
Was to monitor the ocean, control the tide,
And keep track of the dangerous wave inside
The women who stoked and tended the fire
Who told men to hunt and led by desire
The men hunted in the bright light of day
The women behind them all had to stay
Suffering like me to be bloated with life
Or pay for the Sunlight with a week’s worth of strife.”

Fate recoiled at the talk so plain
Of each woman’s independent, united pain
She managed to ask, with a bit of a sneer,
“I know all of that. How can it help here?”
The Moon would have smiled, had she been in crescent
But as she was full she just spoke in a pleasant
Tone, explaining carefully to her sister Fate,
“If you want blood heated to hate
In which to spring thoughts of an epic fight
Seek not the boys, who by my aging sight
Have lost all the vigour of those that face death
Who must press the ‘A button’ to even draw breath
Go to the girls, whose jaws are clenched tight
Keeping a secret with all of their might
Go to the young women, for their blood is warm
As it drips away from their miserable form.”

Fate looked about and saw in the faces
Of the young men but untested graces
She saw a warrior’s stance in the young girls’ hips
She saw a warrior’s snarl set in pink girlish lips
Fate looked about her and saw young men cower
Each girl conspicuously building a tower
Of vanity, pride, and self-criticisms
Transferred to quick-cutting barbed witticisms
Though the men it seemed had all grown meeker
They bore no armor and their jaws were weaker
The women had stepped in to full up the spot
That Agamemnon and Perseus had left lying hot
“There are my heroes,” Fate shouted with joy,
“The ones who caused the burning of Troy!
Why did not know? How could I not see?
My wheel has shifted to women like me!”

The Moon had grown tired, wanted to drift away
So she took her soft voice and was heard to say
“Be careful Fortuna, as all the Sun’s might
Compares not at all to what happens at night.”
Fate was unhearing, for she was already
Picking a heroine whose heart was steady
Who was noble and bold, and would fight for pride
When even a lion might run off and hide
She selected a darling, a little petite
Whose form was well-carved and whose eyes were sweet
Whose face could start another war fit for lore
But whose scowl was impressive all the more
At a round lunch table, where scarce was space
She claimed a chunk fit for a Queen’s place
Her little court arrayed about her looked well
They had seen better times, their Queen was under a spell
Of moods that flew out to her little court
Like the spreading of lice and the spreading of a wart

She sat at a round table, clearly the head,
While those all her around her wished they were dead
If they were the problem, they would surely die
To restore the joy to their sovereign’s eye
Nothing could be done, so the Queen grew
More unhappy and grim and warm—no wind blew
Fate happened upon this tyrant small
Who played with her courtiers like a cat with a ball
Made of mouse bits and half-digested hair
A Queen who tossed out threats and a glare
That challenged all comers to come and be beat
But alas! A Queen in this miserable heat
Fate said, “A right heroine deserves a crusade.”
So the Queen felt a longing for lemonade
She stood form the preciously guarded bench
Turning to her most trusted hench-
Man and telling him perfectly clear,
“When I come back, my seat better be here.”

She walked off boldly, the Warrior Queen,
The set of her shoulders and brow most mean
The lemonade stand was a short while away
But any travel was trying for her that day
The boy left to guard her precious slot
Stared at the Queen’s favorite shady spot
He started to shiver and started to shake
As he thought of the consequences, should he mistake
Or neglect his duty and fail to keep
The Queen’s empty seat, where might rest, might sleep

Fate saw the fear in the Queen’s closest pet
Looked all around, thought, “Who can I get
To lay siege to the Queendom, to take up the throne?
Surely no one would dare ever brave it alone?”
As Fate would have it (and she felt her power
Return like the steam-beginnings of a shower)
Strolled closely by a two-headed snake
In the form of two girls who looked sweeter than cake
With venomous eyes and venomous heart
The pair of them were never apart
They had started a while as simply good friends
But a similarity in ill temper soon sends
A pair of snakes down to the depths of hell
Of their own creation, within which they dwell
Drawing no solace but from each other’s poisoned teat
Complaining of others, of life, and the heat

Fate was impressed with the bile and spleen
That she saw flowing, growing between
The two-headed snake with two bodies, one thought
“They are my villain,” Fate squealed, “I have got
To thrust them into the path of the heroine.
They come walking by now, here, they are slowing.”
Fate watched and gave herself a pat on the back
The two-headed serpent made their first attack
Approached the Queen’s table, saw that she was gone
Wondered aloud if she would be back before long
The table was silent, the courtiers hid behind
Sandwiches, raisins, and passivity of mind
The snake looked about for a good place to coil
Saw a place marked special by the Queen’s own tin foil
Her Majesty had left her uneaten food
Behind her to serve as more of a good
A universally understood sign
Marking out “This is the Queen’s and not thine”
The snakes saw a chance over which they could gloat
As misery and argument they loved to promote
They slid in the seat, looked for a protest
The courtiers all blank except for the distress
Of the Queen’s favorite pet, who grimaced and Sunk
In a cloud of a miserable, impotent funk

The thought of the Queen coming back from her quest
Gave the pet a significant pain in his chest
The sight of the two snake-heads leering at him
Was a sight seeming more immediately grim
The table was silent, they prayed for the bell
Finally a courtier got his strength up to tell
The two-headed snake, “That seat is taken.”
The snake laughed together, said, “You are mistaken.
It was empty just now, it will be empty once more
When my friend and I head for Period Four.”
“No,” said a courtier, “You do not understand.
That seat is for Boudicea, Queen of this land.”
At the mention of Boudicea, the snake grew still
Turning pointed tongue into darkest quill
Writing each letter in murkiest ink
Asking them all, “What makes her think
She can just pick a seat? What makes her so great?”
A courtier begged, “Please go,” but they begged too late.

Her Highness was coming back with her cup
The courtiers felt distinctly their time was up
The snakes looked about and saw all eyes engaged
“We were talking to you,” they shouted, enraged
“You don’t get it,” shrieked a courtier, “You think it’s a game!
Coming back now is our sovereign, our terrible Dame.”
The snakes laughed boldly, as up to that date
They had never met a match for their pure-blooded hate
If they happened upon an intelligence
They simply asked if they had gotten a date to the dance
Sporty belles and beaux they made to shrink
With, “Does anyone ever make it a living in sports, do you think?
They mostly end up injured or heart diseased.”
With the insecure they pretended to be pleased
Until they could crush, and the strong they
Simply tapped weak points until they crumbled away
So far they effectively used subtle veils
To strike fear in the hearts of women and males
As a failsafe for their favorite sport
They made careful sure their comments fell short
Of anything directly mean or cruel
So those that snapped back, they were the fool!
The snakes slid back red-gushing lips over pearl white
Teeth, blunter than sharp but enough for a fight

They were not facing the Queen as she stepped behind
So her majestic bearing did not temper their mind
Boudicea walked alone, in a mass
Of people bendable, breakable as glass
In heat the Sun still made to beam
The Queen’s lemonade surely could steam
Like she did as she did espy
Two snakes who would have done better to lie
In the grass and wait for some Grace or Harriet
Who was not borne on a sword-drenched chariot
Swords stuck out of Boudicea’s ears, eyes, feet
But the sword on which her foes’ deaths were fleet
Is the one sword quick as Nike’s run
The sword of Boudicea’s pinkish tongue

Boudicea appeared behind the snake
A feinting strike was the first she would make
She said simply, “You are in my seat.”
Her mood was fractured by the heat
She had no mercy in her soul
For these snakes who from their hole
Had wandered into her well-kept land
The snake was seen to sturdily stand
Say, “It is strange, but however I try
I see no name like yours nearby.
Perhaps you mean another seat.”
For the first time the snakes’ eyes did meet
Boudicea’s. They sat down to tremble at the flow
Of life even they could sense from their place below
Here was a girl with unnamable strength
The snakes’ minds went to great lengths
To explain her away, called her “brat”, “weird”
They tried not admit she was the first they had feared.

The snakes, unwillingly to walk away
So settling their judgment for another day
Said, “Here, why don’t we act, if we so dare,
Like mature adults. Why don’t we share?”
The courtiers around the table split
Lower in their benches sit
Fate watches her young heroine set to war
Watches the snakes break down forevermore.
Boudicea began by asking one
If she ever had any fun
Being bossed about any day
Never getting her own way
Boudicea outlined how their life
Was like servant to master, man to wife
She overflowed their poisoned river
Neither snake much of a forgiver
She broke apart their precious bond
Until the snakes were replaced by two blonde
Girls with miserable expressions on their face
But who held their ground and stayed in place

Having successfully divided the enemy dissidents
Boudicea cut into their wavering confidence
They jabbed her back a time or three
If she had a heel, they could not see
Her armor was thickly built by
A mother’s kind exacting eye
In the armor was no hole
Through which the snakes her lively soul
Could penetrate or reach to grab
Boudicea made her final stab

It is conjectured near and wide
That the later consecutive suicide
Of snake and snake were in fact due
To mothers and fathers of snake one and two
But when the snake began to cry
(A poetic equivalent of ‘to die’)
The battle was so clearly won
By Boudicea that the midday Sun
Took notice and peered down below
As the snakes finally from the table-field go
Boudicea in glory took her throne
Her skin bright as the Sun it shone
The Moon stood up taller, smiled
As the Sun looked on this Queen, this child
The Sun, who at her angry looks did stare,
Cooled the Queen down with a breath of air