rule

Mary, Queen of Bucks, with beauty sharp as fate,
A painted smile, a poisoned crown, she’d wait.
From velvet lies to whispered tongues of power,
Her hand would grasp, and kingdoms would devour.

A tempest in a lace-edged gown, so sweet,
She danced upon the backs of men’s defeat.
Her lover’s eyes—how they bent to her whim,
Yet in her mirror, shadows grew so grim.