Fucking around like Antoinette,
why wouldn’t you? Showered in debt,
with a romanticised cigarette,
clenched between the two busty lips
that spoke letters to decimate,
the fauna of XVI who couldn’t abdicate,
but eventually did
because of her empowering defiance,
between her nature and her soul,
both accustomed to glitter and gold,
by her pretty life,
which was configured into a knife,
that lacerated the proletariat,
reason of their death: that of Harriet,
in the world we call an autarky.
So seize your key,
pick up your tea,
slip into your idiosyncrasies,
and send the life,
that was never,
meant to be,
to the guillotine.
Evolute your soul;
into glitter and gold.