Mother, forever busy
Indulging in life’s pleasures
Always made room
For the tender loving
Unto Louis-Charles and I
But once the Revolution began
She was frantic and distant
Close to my brother I became closer still
Filling in the space left behind
From an absent father
And an absent-minded mother
Only a boy, so young and pure
Did I see through until his death
Imposters and fakes may take his throne
But I am not naïve
You claim to be him—that you escaped
Then riddle me this:
On the night of Viva la France,
Did you address me by sister
Or by Mother?