I recommend a light oil and a short comb, keeping sissors to hand to cultivate that King George V shape or, if you are feeling brave, go for the majesty of a full Henry VIII.

Poor Annaliese, with no knowledge about life
You lived your life sheltered
Out of human strife
You bathe with diamonds and rose scents
With golden spoon on your tongue
And a lot of dishes to pick upon.

Lovely fabrics; red, yellow and blue
Glass slippers— Cinderelly you're true
Smile Annaliese, Show your warmth
Show ignorance, Let them know you're proud
Wave side to side, Gentle curtsy my dear
Show off your wealth, Know no fear
Silly Annaliese, When you laugh they shouldn't hear

You sheltered brat, arrogant and rude
You dance so well and fake good
Goodness gracious, what would happen if you stepped out of your castle
Will you be able to survive the riot? The rattle?
****, Annaliese, learn to live!
Stop being dependent on what your majesty gives

I have seen God.
Her head raised high, poised and beautiful
Smooth skin that seems to control nature in her veins.
In her was history, the first, the genesis.
Her love is impartial, incomparable.

I have seen God
In different shades of earth and nature
Made of Protons, neutrons, melanin
She is root; the source of life
Life itself, the very beginning.

I have seen God
She would trade her life for her children
She’s an armour and life jacket
She is the source of life and peace.
She is more than an angel, she is a god.

I have seen God
She is black.

I don't know who she is,
but I can make
believe the truth.

She’s a princess
Of an island
Somewhere right outside Peru.

She’s the daughter
Of a grand king
And a lovely queen too.

I imagine
A long line
Of men who’d want to pursue

The fair maiden
the heiress
Of a throne she’ll soon assume.

She’ll rule with power and grace,
A smile on her face,
Kindness in her heart,
She’ll give the kingdom a new start.

Though some may doubt,
I know that's who she'll be.
Even if she's not,
She'll always be a princess to me.

i will sit on a mantle of my own making
sip on wine I made myself
wear a gown of my own inspiration
pluck the crown from the mud at my feet
walk with the knowledge of my deeds
I will no more abandon my thrown
as small and neglected as it is
it will grow with me and i with it

How sad, how tragic,
How tragically sad.
A girl with not fifteen summers of life
Holding a nation’s affairs on her ebony shoulders.
Such a pretty young thing,
Strongminded and headstrong.
So bright
And a truly sweet flower.
That head is far too young for that crown
But not a thing is to be done
To stop this flower from being crushed
Without crushing her petals in the process.

More gold on her arms than in any treasury
That this state has ever known.
More kohl in her eyes
Than coal in any of the nation’s mines.
Her crown with gilded leaves,
Outshone by the melted gold on sharpened thorns,
Is one to rival the King of Jews himself.
And surely her bands are enough
To stop a gladiator in his tracks.
But it is her empire
That gives this femme fatale her magnificent pride
She cares not for her possessions
Only for her people,
For the men who ride behind her
Against anyone foolish enough to oppose.
She cares for her castle, a fortress of grandeur
And for the high court leading her world.
She cares not for shining armor
But for their knights, standing atop the walls
She cares not for her crown but for her throne
And not for any prince but her own son.
She cares for the Empire.
Her Empire.