The King shits through the eye of a needle.
The Royal Physician pales as he prescribes
enough loperamide to empty a warehouse.
Have some of my tramadol, shouts The Consort,
gets me through many a dull afternoon.
The King wails from the en suite,
It’s an ill omen, curse of the name:
one Beheaded, one a Catholic.
The alcoholic Pretender was neither
acknowledged or crowned.
Inside her dressing gown The Consort sighs.
It had all been nice while it lasted.
Darling, it could be much worse than this,
she proclaims with Gut Spasms Unabated
playing on in the background.
The Royal Physician holds up glass cups
over the Royal Nipples. The Consort shakes her head
under some hotly disputed crown.
Well there’s nothing left to purge,
he mouths, eyes flicking
from the opening dressing gown
to the jar The Consort is tapping.
The leeches inside crawl glass walls
to an age old rhythm.
Bloodletting it is.
new boots and pantisocracies 