The Queen and Her Tarts

March 24, 2010
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My ruffled Rose garden,
Painted, prickled, and red,
Here she comes out a stirring,
Yelling, “Off with their head,”

A malevolent type,
An aggressor to see,
And oh, if she turns a scarlet,
What a sight she would be,

Striking fear in her subjects,
Striking fear in the best,
Her tarts have been stolen,
Her voice will yet rest,

Oh, may I say that those tarts,
Were fairly quite good,
And how did they vanish?
Like the Cheshire cat would.

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