The Queen

Gargoyles sit with smiles on perches.

The ordained walk around blessing the churches.

“The king comes today!” cries a small girl,

Dancing about with a neck of false pearls.

The blind are somehow finding their way

To the middle of town on a bustling day.

The limp and the lame get up and walk.

Everyone wants to hear the king talk.

The trumpeters are there—up on the hill.

And men at the bar finish drinking their fill.

There—in the distance—a caravan nears.

Out from the wood, they enter the clear.

Lo, they see but one shadow there in the throne.

The queen, alas, must already be home.

The closer it nears, to the mass’s surprise,

“The queen rides alone!” the little girl cries.

“But where is our king?” the barkeep mutters.

“Wh-wh-where could he be?” a cripple boy stutters.

Amidst the confusion an old drunkard sings,

“Dear queen, please tell us, where is our king?”

She speaks, “You will not like what I have to say,

For this is truly a sad somber day.

The king’s been run through. He’s dead—deceased.

The news came this morning from a field in the East.”

Her head falls a moment, she fights back a tear.

“Do not worry good people, please have no fear.

For I was your woman, and now a queen I must be,

And as a queen I shall rule, for it is my creed.”

Then all the king’s horses and all the kings men

Stood tall, reassuring the town folk again.

And often you’ll hear the old drunkards sing,

“A fine woman has risen from the death of our king.”

—Brian Geisler