H, the haughty bitch,
climbs high no matter her use,
capitalizing on only a half-stroke less
in a lower-case hierarchy.
With her brother S, she is admonishing,
Shove it, shut up, shhhhhhhhhhhhh!
She is ethereal, no question may
be asked without her opinion,
who cares, how in the hell did you get here?
(He brought me)
She is solitary, outspoken, editorial,
Anarchist!
A historiated punctuation,
Ha! Spiteful in her
hindrance, eighth in a long
line of soldiers pulling hot lead and humping
Hamburger Hills.
With T she is a hiss,
a sour note
a historectomy of shit,
thoughtless truth, hidden
backwash in an afterthought.
Even in the happiest tense
she is a harbringer,
a short expulsion of final breath
Huh huh huuuuu…
happiness turning in itself,
an underscore of hopelessness.
Much more appropriate,
she is always hungry.
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Submission Name: Henrietta the VIII
