Contemporized  King.

Palpitation
Leaps from me;
Wicked comes momentarily: 

Hand in hand, the hardened king
And his two wenches pricked
And thinned. 

Slowly rusts his queen in bed,
From ‘Out-of-season’ into
Dead. 

-

The thane of Fife, he had a wife
And little kiddies ripe to pluck-
Till he had nails struck through their feet
And wings clipped so that they were stuck
Inside their fleshy bags, alack! 

We sisters, though, are not in need
Of feather sprouting from our back.
We sew fortune to our sides
When we
Were struck by patriarchy;
Blind, raw fist and anarchy-
Whispers formed their slick hierarchy,  

But we strike back with patricide.