If the Crown Fits

A Poem by Georgia Mason

Affectionately, for Betty Bailer.

the fog,
the flowers
the pearls
the hard biting nails
that reject any sickening
suitable sailor
who turns into her alley

a lady's temple will never be scoured
with tattered butterflies and nonsense
poets
sipping on their crappy pretentious drawl
trying to convince one
of the tragedies they procreate,
the tunes they claim to know before anyone else

a lady's light is always on but never red
her triumphs are real but never said
don't even bother holding a candle about her head
the white of her clothes are too bright for you

come on stupid girl,
don't you have something to say?
pretend you're anything
just to be sought, to be laid
put on the greasy stage make up
and the sweats to cover the stretched
stories you sell

the flab,
the camera
the lies
the sour dirty hands you tell
all your cliche men,
you'll do anything for
if they pretend to care

your temple will always be weeping
littered in the short necked bottles
you've always sucked
eagerly
1, 2, 99 bottles of
rumors you delight in, drown in
as you open your snout:
"she who claims strength to be a lady is not"

of course stupid girl,
this is something you would say!
you cannot contend
for you have no reason, no pride
not even a decent dress behind which to hide
your claims have made you much too big

so pack up your colored flags, girl
your high-pitched cheesy quotes
your blue eyeliner and cheap tricks
because the crown of a lady
is something you'll never fit over your head.