My name is Jack and this is my throne of leaves and lobsters.
I scratched and clawed and bit and stretched my way here.

I’m having my coffee now, ma’am, I asked you not to bother me.
You feel like a slave. I hear you, I hear you.
Sometimes I feel like a slave too.
Like when I see the Russian mountains outside my window mock at my borrowed power.-
I try at immortality every time my queen undresses.

I really don’t have the time to hear your questions.
You feel like a slave, you’ve said this to me before.
Yes, I know how you feel because I am a slave too.
I feel chains around my ankles when I toss and turn on the grass
And it laughs at my nature, it laughs at my biology.
But I’ll tell you something. My queen never laughs at me.
I never feel like a slave in our bed. (I am not Jack).

This coffee is bitter now, get me sugar please just a little.
Lips and throat and stomach and blood (mine is the same as yours).
We feel like slaves because we are slaves.
My name is Jack (but it hasn’t always been).
Do you understand ma’am-
I am my queen’s Jack; my body is hers. my body, my body.
My borrowed divinity seems powerless in our unfertilized wombs.
Immortal only in pleasure, you and me, sister -  
we are slaves to these mountains.

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