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
How the World Should Work 