[Verse 1 – spoken with dry, aristocratic amusement] Power does not always sit on the throne. Sometimes it stands behind it, Correcting posture, Whispering improvements, Waiting. Yzma waited very well. [Verse 2 – spoken with sharp, clinical calm] She governed from the shadows, Where decisions age quietly. While others argued loudly, She adjusted ingredients, Measured doses, And smiled through clenched patience. Rulers rise fast. Advisors endure. [Verse 3 – spoken with smooth, venom-laced elegance] She preferred poison. Not for drama, But for efficiency. No blades. No witnesses. Just a gentle failure of breath, A heart that chose the wrong moment to stop. Natural causes, they said. She agreed. [Verse 4 – spoken with tightening, predatory certainty] She never struck in haste. She prepared inevitability. By the time you noticed her absence, Your fate was already working overtime. You were alive. Technically. Which made you useful For just a little longer. [Verse 5 – spoken with cold, satisfied precision] This is her genius: No rebellion. No spectacle. Only results delivered quietly To a shocked court That applauds the funeral arrangements. [Outro – spoken with dry, lethal finality] Remember her lesson well. The most dangerous ruler Is the one you never saw coming. If Yzma smiles at you, you are a dead man standing.
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