The Beauty Queen

I called her a beauty queen,
She preferred princess.
We went out to Red Lobster,
so she asked for a Monster,
crab crakes, some baked lays
and then handled the eggs.
Before she lay to rest
I eyed her in our nest.
A dormant future.
Well then they said it was a dream.
But that was from a glean
of chat raw and pure.
What do I want more:
talk is cheap, and therapists’ whore
the mind for debilitation.
Actualization.
The Queen *is* alive,
Every kiss begins with –
yea, not Conor.
Not Red Robin.
Not the AMC.
Perhaps Ecuadorian KFC,
where you belong in your league.
There was no “Queen.”
And that makes you mean
To fail to see: girl lucky as green
shamrocked scenes and a brute
beast who feasts
on a deceptive lure for always something more.