Let's Majeste

I sit a throne upon the times when Kings are rare and Consorts slide into the grease of scullery maids. So gaily wave a crown of light (astride the royal chair) that blinds the commoners who genuflect and cross their fingers. The years will lie beside me on the queenly bed. And coupled we'll await the ages’ dust to cake my lids again. And when the rousing kiss is given, why must it always be a fairy, and only just a Prince?