The Queen sits high upon her throne and I am hers—her very own.
I sit and await her beckon call for she’s my Majesty, the Queen of all.
She points and shouts for what she needs and I jump at her command.
I kiss her feet and bow my head and she pets me with her lovely hand.
Her breasts are full, her belly round, her lips are cherry red.
If I am good and I am kind, she may take me to her royal bed.
We will romp and we will play and roll and laugh the day away.
But then again, tomorrow comes and back to reality I must go.
She will crack her mighty whip and stomp her foot and scream,
“Pour my tea and draw my bath and kiss my little toes!”
Everything for my Queen—yes, everything for her sweetness.
She is so fair and soft and gentle—yes, she is my weakness.
all rights reserved
POETRY POTLUCK- Dictatorship, Autocracy, and Despotism ~ Jingle Poetry