With battered brushes I unleash her sorrow

Upon the world. She stares at the bleakest sky:

Seeing neither ivory moon nor jewelled star;

The ragged crimson flag flutters in the wind

While she waits for her last friend, death, to consume her.


Yes, that is a most exquisite painting that

I only purchased a fortnight past.

What a femme fatale is she! She wears a mask.

Look! Her wandering eyes, her haughty countenance.

Like the princess of the Phoenicians, she applies her finery.


At the Earl’s Hall I noticed a rather fine painting.

A woman, of great beauty, staring into the heavens.

Her lily-white skin like a candle among the dark caverns,

With beguiling eyes and lustrous hair

Far beyond pearls is her value!


Psst! Maggie! Look at tha’ paintin’ over there!

Don’t she look powerful? Bit like a queen,

All, dress’d up, watchin’ over ‘er land

Lucky ‘er, Tom’d nevva even let me join them suffragettes.

Best look busy, the Earl’s returned.


Now, beside this Georgian table we can clearly see

This most priceless painting. Bought from a Venetian painter,

It has been gazed upon since the time of Leonardo.

Who is she? None other than that tortured soul,

The Greatest Consort England ever had: Anne Boleyn!


By Mark Sforza


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