By Matilda Altheimer
Though I am a naught, a rain old,
My thoughts are free, my thoughts are bold.
Within my heart and my soul, I ween
that I am the equal of any queen
For is not my scepter the fluent pen
The twenty-six letters my vassal men,
Who readily will obey my command
Whenever I guide them with ruling hand?
I join them and send them into the field
And if no success in battle they yield.
I try it again, I am not vexed,
And hopeful I send them into the next.
I cannot abstain forever to try
To rule my subjects until I die;
If naught but a failure my life has been,
Then pen in my hand felt like a queen.
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