“The castle is a prison”, she once mused,

“For ones as foolish as myself”, thought she,

The peasants might be famished and abused

“But royal courts are not suited for me”

She longed for simpler times much like her youth

A tiny little cottage in the woods,

Where she would dream a place much less uncouth

How foolish she was, seeking worldly goods

To actually put heaven ‘pon a map

Courtiers its angels raised up higher still

To hope now seemed was just a mental trap

For she felt not much better with her fill

Though she was fair with skin that was snow white

Turns out that royalty does not feel right