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Rated: E · Poetry · Sci-fi · #2203779
A young leader in the Orion quadrant is forced out of her position.
The eyes of Ruler 49 were so inflamed
she could almost see behind her,
the heat of eye a red hot poker.
“You are not a child anymore,”
said the high Council of Punt,
thus, you must step down
as queen—that’s just the
way it is here on Planet
Four of the Orion

49’s face
puffed round
as beefsteak tomato,
her antennae stiffened
like asparagus sticks in Paris,
her long, thin neck pulsated like
an over-taut banjo string to where
her Eve’s apple boinged back and
forth, elongating turkey-like skin
in a shoot where hunters’ glee
is the victim of civility. 

“I won’t step down, no, I won’t
step down!”  Stomping 49 chirped,
flapping webbed feet on council
floor linoleum recently bartered
from renegade tradesmen
of Betelgeuse. 

“What we have here
is failure to communicate!”
Opined one of the council members.
Desperate times demanded desperate
measures—all were agreed.  They
had no choice but to lead her
away with a piece of
black licorice.

35 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
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