The countess was a clever girl,
she wrote a grammarie of bees,
stole family jewels from an old earl,
a tuneless hum is on the breeze.
She grows her children in the wall,
they stare and glare and grow so tall,
her husband's useless as her thrall,
he sells strange honey at a stall,
his knight's their vows they don't recall,
they fight with splinters one and all.
Now she her thoughts are many thoughts,
her people work for her all day,
they choose who dies by drawing lots,
but from their labor they can't stray.