The shunnings of a silhouette
moved closer to the mansion's porch,
and with a dark decree, came death
and lit her final fiery torch.
The ghost of Marie Antoinette
trespassed in passing passages
throughout the mansion's hallways, let
in by hand, who ravages.

And at the end a polished door
stood next to one in withered oak,
she took the door she'd seen before
and disappeared in rays of smoke.
Behind the polished stone shone gold
in pools of blood upon the floor
and dusty lay antiques of old
in struttered streets forevermore.

But quaint the paintings on the wall
followed Marie's bloodshot eyes
towards the coming curtain call
unearthing earthly lullabies,
where down the hall a shadow tall
did smash the smoke to smithereens
and in the shades of Marie's fall
she found out what to wither means.