The Seventh Wife
On Monday morning, the Queen fell ill;
on Tuesday morning, she wrote her will;
on Wednesday morning, the doctors said,
"She'll be in pain, and then be dead."
The King didn't let this be a bother:
after one wife, there comes another.
And all in all, he said with wit,
he was the Eighth - she but the sixth.
His people whispered, the wise took heed,
could it be poison that did the deed?
But why use poison, someone would ask,
when two queens' necks had met the axe?
Yet sure enough, the strangest things
would happen now there were no queens.
The voices whispered a black-clad maid
had grabbed the King and had him swayed.
Plink, plink, went the blood,
dripping down into the mud.
Young Mary's head could not be found,
until they went to check the hound.
Plink, plink, went the oil,
dripping down into the soil.
Little Liz was roasted well,
as scorched as the souls in Hell.
Plink, plink, went the rain,
dripping down into the drain.
Eddie floated, purple with bloat,
the moat a sea, and he its boat.
And so a King with no more heirs,
with too much fat, too many cares,
must do what he knows must be done,
and find a wife to give him a son.
A wife he found, he knew the drift:
in fact he was awfully swift.
A black-clad maid with endless guile,
light dancing hands, the sharpest smile.
"She'll be my Queen!", the King said,
and since they all loved their head
they kept their counsel, and went along
with what they felt was awfully wrong.
For the black-clad maid gave them a chill,
her hungry eyes were forged of steel;
but when she spoke, her voice did sooth
all of their doubts about the truth.
One word she said, no need for more:
they'd go to sea, they'd go to war,
they'd walk and conquer lands unseen,
they'd give their life for their new Queen.
"My lords," she spoke, "it is a joy
to have you be my faithful toy.
This wife won't be like the first six,
so pleased to meet you: I'm Bellatrix."