Marie Antoinette, in her loose curls of extravagant wig,
Walked like a bride in the aisle of execution.
Rags instead of finery,
Her tale would be legendary.

The French threw mud and pebbles,
But her rage was barely supressed.
Her face red with each tug,
Can't blame no one, as her own grave she dug.

And she left France with a swish of a blade,
Her wig rolled, and lost all the braid.

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