Pissed Poem. Diagnosis:Being left alone all night with no one.
She's the Wicked Queen
She dances on lilies & removes her coat.
She's my stepsister & you're the prince.
You asked for the slipper to fit her, & it fit me.
But she's the royalty; my royal pain.
Make a show that fits her, so that she can say, "I do."
Runoff with her to your exotic resorts.
She's your whore & my wicked queen.
Her name, do you even know it?