Did she, owe it, to her, German gene
Inertia, of her, upper lip
If yes, paid off, that debt, British Queen
To free, her smirk, from that, stoic kinship!

Was it, her husband’s, infidelities
Or grooming, to be class, not the mass
This widow, now looks, more at ease
Since, that ‘iron’ bride, was made, of glass!

Why, London burns, when a widow, grins
Can’t Highness, be a, human too!
Done with, sacraments of, Royal Sins
She dares, to death, straight-faced taboo!

Or has, Her Highness, lost at last
Her ‘vile’ style, to a, senile guile
No more, in the prison, of her past
A Queen, Redeemed, Her ‘Jarring’, Smile!

© 2021 Vikas Chandra