In some village far away,
Where once there was a palace,
Lives the ghost of Anne, once the Queen of Canance.
She had been beheaded for traitory,
That truly belonged to another.
She still haunts the town, they say, where she had been beheaded.
At times a proud child or a man will dare stride at night
Down the road Boronda.
They, though, soon scurry back, their faces pale from fear,
For they will have heard, unlike many,
The wail of poor Queen Anne.
“Oh, you men, how much you take for granted
The head placed upon your neck, that lets you see and think.
That part of you that enables you to talk
And taste the sweetness of cupcakes.
But, if you spoiled ones truly care not for your heads,
I will take them as my own.”
The people would then run,
Run away from the headless ghost of a queen,
But claimed to have heard her cry out her final words –
“Be grateful to be headed.”