Royal? Farfetched.

May the poison be served before the banquet.
"So have I"

So many secrets woven unto your gown, mister.

Oswald we're both deservers of the throne

and at the same time inflicted upon society,

nerve-wracking, royalty upon your dirt.

A trophy, an exit passed by our lane.

I can smell the troubled air:

the vitriolic poison that ended your life.

They poured it when you were not looking.