Soup kitchens of the Bowery clothe and feed a queen:

my lazy bones, my stray thoughts need a queen.

Elizabeth wrote her sonnets in the blood

of martyred papists—now, let's read a queen!

My lips and fingers pray a chaplet to the Virgin,

mirror of patience, seat of wisdom; daily, I bead a queen.

I'm quite the green thumb at royal gardening!

I till the soil and scatter; indeed, I seed a queen.

On bent knee, I gaze up into my love's fierce eyes

wise of me: to hush, to listen, to heed a queen.

Bugger the patriarchy (gently!) with a cactus:

I ask you, who's most suited to lead? A queen!