Behold the Queen of Discontent
from a land called Misery.
Bestowed with gifts of bad intent,
wrapped in lies and treachery.

She wears a cloak of darkest black,
not to symbolize her strife,
it hides the blood stains on her back
oft stung by love's twisted knife.

Her royal crown of heavy weight
rests low on her furrowed brow.
Eats envy from a poison plate,
washed down with wine of broken vow.

She sits upon a thistle throne
shift her left or right can't win.
To sit so still she's weary prone
should she move thorns pierce her skin.

Her wealth of love still sees no host,
so seems it will always be.
New loves chased off by past love's ghost,
drown in moats of memory.

Behold the Queen of Discontent
from a land called Misery.
She'll not give up 'til her life is spent,
I know for this queen is me.