He whips out his penis as he approaches the Queen.
No Shakespearean trope can mellow this moment!
Head held high, swelling and swaggering.
His livery gleams golden in the honeyed light.
He, not afraid to shed blood to claim his birthright.
With a collective gasp, the attendants fall back.
Paralyzed by his daring, his lack of propriety.
Most of all, astonished at how small it is!
The Queen, glowing, preening, looks straight ahead.
Immobile, unblinking, quite unperturbed.
Hiding her pleasure, she was born for this moment.
Then, in the presence of the entire Court, it happens.
The assault: the penetration; the consummation;
The exhausted falling away.
In that instant, the trance is broken.
The Court surges forward, surrounding and buzzing.
From within the frenzied crush, the sounds of the slaying.
The limbs and head being ripped from the torso.
And who are the heroes and villains of our little melodrama?
Sir Walter Raleigh, four hundred years ago?
No! Just the honeybees down at the hive yesterday.
Doing what honeybees do.
History Footnote: Sir Walter’s head was removed during the reign of James I, not Elizabeth I. But, hey! My poetic license is current!
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