In a faraway land lived a wicked queen,
With cruel and exotic pleasures.
And high in a tower, behind a locked door,
Was the room where she kept her treasures.
Under her bed, slick, full and red,
A box of human hearts.
And high on a shelf, the family jewels,
A bowl of other, male, parts.
But on the table, in rows of six,
Laid out like the proverbial lamb,
Was the queen's truest weakness, her secret, her vice;
Tarts with strawberry jam.
With lipstick smeared and a dripping chin,
The Queen would devour her feast,
Grunting and groaning and making the call
Of a horned, amorous beast.
The years would pass, and the royal rose drooped,
But the queen never left her tower.
High in her room, swathed in scarlet,
She never once doubted her power.
Her subjects revolted, and marched on the tower,
They trampled the door and they took her head.
And for all the tarts, and hearts, and private parts,
It didn't matter; the queen was dead.