The Lady Porcelain Fair | Teen Ink

The Lady Porcelain Fair

July 8, 2019
By Lyzerb BRONZE, Woodbury, Connecticut
Lyzerb BRONZE, Woodbury, Connecticut
1 article 0 photos 0 comments

Her pale fingers donned jewels delightful

A palace of powder and pearls her hair

Her Maiden Meek did fluff the skirts

Of course, for her fine Lady Porcelain Fair.


Her heels would touch no less than marble

Her lips no less than the finest silverware

Her eyes no less than sights divine

All alas, for the Lady Porcelain Fair.


Demeter should shriek in envy

For her gardens were vast and beguiling

The bees were fat and thorns were sharp  

And stone ladies stood watch unsmiling.


But down into the dreary town

Where wastrel rats and drunkard dogs held court  

They moaned and wailed for want of bread

Stomachs birthed devils who sounded the mort!


O come now! O come all! They cried.

All ye bastards weary and full of dread!

Let’s sack the Baker and his Wife

Who both sit fat on a pile of bread!


Sirens did hunt into the night

Armed with axes and forks and spears and flares

Upon that gold palace divine

For blood of the Lady Porcelain Fair.


The Lady’s walls burst asunder

The Sirens’ shriek rang like a ghastly choir

Her guards slain and mounted on pikes

Her divine gardens delight set afire.


Aghast, she fled to her dear King

His four chins wobbling like sweet cream eclair

And in hands they stepped into view

So they might see Lady Porcelain Fair.


“If it is bread you seek, said she

Then eat bread and cake as all you fancy!”

At that, they roared, ablaze with rage

But King Eclair did peep to quell the frenzy.


“As you desire, we shall retreat

Away to the capital at once,

Bread for you and bread for all”

His chins wobbling fiercely upon their taunts.


The Baker and the Baker's Wife

We have them in our hands! They cried and blared

Liberty spewed forth from their lips

Dirty fists clenched for the ghost of Voltaire


Her palace divine far distant

They drew forth into the dark lion’s lair

Down into that dreary old town

So weeped that fine Lady Porcelain Fair.


The author's comments:

This is poem is a traditional ballad not only in it’s form and rhyme scheme, but in it’s story and theme.  Old folk ballads often tell stories of great tragedy and drama, and I thought what better subject than the wonderously ignorant and fabulously frivolous Marie Antoinette?  I have often found I am mysteriously drawn to stories with catastrophically sad endings, and hers is just that.  


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