How should we say this,
For you are the most divine to have walked this earth.
From the infant in the gilded crib,
To the enfant terrible that slaked the hearth.
As we watch you from,
Cloistered alcoves and slit windows.
Scouring the crowds,
For evil doers and foes.
We cannot but think:
That as expendable pawns must we be deck't.
To not sleep,
But to serve and protect.
When the occasional one of us,
May stumble and stall.
And eyes of desire make,
At her highness' wake.
Run 'em through the gauntlet do we,
Bloodied and sore - lesson to all.
That we are the forlorn cloaked ones,
On her majesty's secret service.
And like the myrmidons of Achilles
Must we watch for her heel,
Resplendent in the jeweled prada.
And bent at the knee must we kneel,
With a corner-eye on
The enemy within.
Lest our kneeling being,
Makes us mistake
Our cold steel for a diamond ring.
For her station she was born into,
And there we shall keep her be.
And our place have we earned with out blood,
And remain that way it shall.
Remember - our place is in the shadowy nave,
Not in the silken bedspread.
Nay, majesty.
This is no teardrop.
Guardsmen don't cry.
This is sweat, little one.
'tis a hot summer.
A trifle sultry,
Not dry.
Winterborn IX