Queen's Age Poem by Alexander Onoja

Up till now, no one knows the Queen's age,
although yesternoon, we debated on the stage.
On Mondays the birds mock her,
but the mirror showed the beauty hidden down.
On Tuesday she's shy covering her face,
her eyes deep in ebony brown.
On Wednesday, she comes out young,
pretty as ever, more than I've seen.
Motions were muted as an observance hung,
father's a nobleman, mother's a Queen.
On Thursday she had four teeth left,
skin wrinkled and full of sleep.
The dying sunset kindled through a cleft,
as her beauty fades in a heap.
On Friday, the club's anthem sang, and she danced to it in youthful swirls,
shedding scales of oldage.
On Saturday, her rays struck hearts,
as she graced the casket.
Sunday's debate was on her age,
but her real age, she'd locked in a locket.
A locket befitting only a hero's wage.
Up till now, no one knows the Queen's age.