Cold Dezorian Princess

No more escapades for this crippled thing,
the daughter of the king,
a tribe's future queen.
On her final day came a terrible fall.
She was jarred from her litter of ivory and gold,
adorned on the corners with lacon and lace,
when a mole crossed her elephant's path.
She traded her comforts for enveloping cold.
Her finely embroidered emerald sash
was stained to a brown like a g'grat-made mace.
Then her head met the ice, and so ended it all.
No more triumphs for her. No more stories told.
She traded her comforts for infinite cold.

I found her days later, made then by the frost
as white as her mammoth in lacon and lace,
clothed in a gown of the emerald moss.
Her neck had been twisted, as if she reached
to look upon temples with spires and flames
to melt away ice that had quickly beseeched
the last living piece of her owl-pecked frame.
I lifted from her the emerald sash.
I stole from her body the lacon and lace.
I took from the dead its last lingered pride.
And I, a g'grat, left none in its place.

To a green-skinned maid goes the fire inside
that which I owe her, my humble homestead.
But if chance came again, I would leave her alone,
that sweet green-skinned maiden, dead.