A hand with chores, Lord, all I ask
But Mary took the right true path
Holy saint Martha saw her brother raised
Came to France after, tamed a Tarasque
Led by its neck with her satin sash
In the square with knives they slash
Doomsday she shoots up from her grave
A royal masque and banquet a male heir at last
Never say but that king’s siring time is long past
At a glance she’s several weeks no chance it’s his
He speaks his voice near to breaking, sheer elated.
Alchemisland 
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