She’s the storm in the calm
and the calm in the storm.
Life is in her right hand,
but death is in her left.
Sweetness is in her right buttock,
but chaos is in her left.
Honey is in her right breast,
but poison is in her left.
She’s right-handed, until it’s broken,
until the wrong words are chosen,
until she’s robbed of her token.
Oh, what the hell is “soft-spoken”?
“Yes, you better be joking.”
That Queen is a fiery ocean.
You dare not hurt her children;
she keeps her cold heart frozen.
She meows and strides before she roars,
like a humble bureau-cat.
She marks her territory;
she does it just like that.
If you trample on her
like the people do on mats,
with the class and style of an aristo-cat,
and the power and poise of a big lioness-cat,
she tears you into many bloody parts,
just like that.