Gwyneth

She sat on her rotting throne,
Queen Gwyneth, like a crone,
She grew bitter with time,
Watching the joy of mine.

And when one foot entered her domain,
She cackled- thunder, lightning, rain!
She rose from her chair,
Pushed me into her lair.

Wherefore art your manners, she hissed,
Her beaky nose birdlike and missed
my heart, luckily, narrowly, for she flung a knife,
Writhing around in her robes, full of strife.

Then I apologised, cowering slightly,
For not calling her Queen, but she took it lightly!
Her long, twisted nails, she lifted a finger,
The smell of her dirty heart, doth heavily linger.

I ran , the door to freedom closing fast,
And when I looked, she was not there alas,
And when I looked again,
It was all in vain.