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.