The Windsor Witch

vikas chandra

See droop to dust, her crumbling skin
Which reigned the world, unfeelingly
Last emblem, of English Sin
Now lingers in, Tomb of Slavery!

No more, left gore, she lusted for
Nor pain, she savored, more than bliss
Now moans to death, that royal whore
Who sold black soul, to White Prejudice!

The breasts, which suckled, British Pride
The claws, which scarred, lands’ histories
The fangs, which ripped to shreds, black hide
Long-lost, lives on, yet Fascist Disease!

Dolled-up, dead shrew, with a begging bowl
Betwixt free world, and imperial itch
How times have changed, no heads will roll
Should someone slay, The Windsor Witch!

© 2018 Vikas Chandra

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