Quintessentialist

Petticoats of a whore
they fit her well
cast off,
coarse
and rotten.

What a child
to say such things
when
no one
will bother to listen.

The wing-beaters, the moths
will make ash of her coats
nibbling like fair-winged beasts.

She loves it
when you ask her to stay
that imp, that flaxen queen
so affected in her manner
she’d rather die
than raise the banner

so white and crisp and clean.

But what is to be expected
when the droll
is only paid to amuse.