image by diego Velazquez
Respect me
The little brat says
Placing a crown upon his head
Excalibur blunt
For the knights are dead
And there is no
Honour
Beside his bed
For land has crumpled
And bed is wry
His ghosts themselves
They never die
Soon they will sit upon
His head
Marrying the throne
For he is dead
Where is the council
Gold turned to bronze
Voices of substance
Chorus absconded
His broken knee
A missing eye
His God will nod
As he will cry.
