Before she darts upon her checkered stage;
before two-faced time's been struck--
She's pinched at her crown and yanked from her cage,
then plunked down hard-by a battle to wage.
When those hands dark her sky and thunder, "Good Luck!",
her puppeted ranks cheer their Queen of Pluck.
Her spirited heart beats the call to war,
as she marshals her forces and orders by lore--
"Middle pawns storm! Knights wheel about!
Good Bishop heed my warning shout!
We'll score the win! I've writ the book!
Quickmarch, milord, to yonder rook!"
No pin, no fork, too soon, too late;
scathing moves in her sparkling fashion--
She skewers the steed in hobbled gait,
and rids it with fiery passion.
Now squaring her site dead-on h8,
Gloriana glides, how she glides, now she glides, check and mate.