She had wished for gold baubles and bay-leaf laurels,
some things from her classics classes. Head girls
never learn to slake that popularity thirst,
but Fate, fickle, foolish, turning, can spin them worse.
The cross she wore about her throat went first.
The crucified Jesus and each golden link transmogrified to turds.
Every doorknob, chair or table her cack-hand touched,
became a hot-steamed pile some cruel God had thrutched.
Eating figs in meetings, her mouth became a swirling toilet bowl
of angry tods. She spat and spoke in farts, her tongue a hardened stool.
Across continents, they crowned her the shit-stained fool,
who’d been Queen for an hour until the tiara had fouled.
Flies followed her. A meal. Feast. Behind, a wake of churning crap
transformed to shit each cleanliness its frothing-filth lapped.
When all was gone to shot, she tapered, curled herself,
drew one last miser’s push. The almighty sphincter pinched her off.