In the corner, she sits.
Her wide-rimmed glasses hung around her neck.
Her steely-eyed gaze, fixed
As from the china I sip.
“Pinky out!” she reprises.
Knowing that it must be drummed in to you.
Like forks of different sizes
When just one would do.
I am told ‘Silence is Golden’;
One wonders if politeness is one-sided,
For I’m no part of this conversation
On matters prided.†
Who died and made her queen?
Profound rightful heiress to all matters esoteric.
Her subjects go unheard, but seen
Under laws dreamt up by those hysteric.‡
She has me picking at nits,*
Tied up in strings, like her marionette.
In the corner, she sits
With thanks to Clint V Franklin for helping me formulate stanzas 3 & 4, and generally finishing the poem
off. I’ve been working on this in some form since November 2009.