by Nick Gisburne
The regent’s panic, spreading, soaring, swells,
With every cry a painful, piercing howl.
He runs to where a sick man, dying, dwells,
With dreams too dark for decency, too foul.
He should have been, but never will be, king.
His mother, fertile, full, will see to that.
The youngest, by tradition, wears the ring.
Before the fits, his father made her fat.
Whatever fleeting influence he flaunts,
In ashes it will die before the dawn,
As all the years of mockery, the taunts,
Resurface, when his brother, soon, is born.
The power passes when a king is dead.
With time to spare, he finds his father’s bed.
