Anne Boleyn

Such sadness, sorrow, sores of men

Lie rest in all transgression, sin

Such serene solitude falls in

The story of this Anne Boleyn

Maiden of the arts and crafts

A beauty who, through all, would laugh

Always thinking, shirts she’d hem

And always making mice of men

Sharpened tongue, a sharper heart

No other could tear it apart

Henry eighth was blind, you see

For this madam – nobility

Men who see not what they have

Cannot claim land, nor they calve

They are but a selfish kind

And worlds should pay them, to no mind


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