He wore desire like velvet on his tongue, Yet built his fame on whispers, not caress. A baked potato hid the steel he flung Through Piombi’s roof—his genius, not finesse.
In Paris, dreams were sold in numbered lots, A lottery to mend a kingdom’s debt. He siphoned gold through patriotic plots, Then vanished ere the scandal could be met.
At court, he courted queens not for their grace, But for the keys they held to secret doors. He knew which palm to grease, which mask to face, And turned seduction into state affairs.
Bunden vers (Sonett)
av Jeflea Norma, Diana.
Publicerad 2025-08-06 23:05