Left behind with all his realm intact
He whimpers in his castellated state.
Bunkered down against besieging fate
He would again to the battlements craul.
Outside, the droves pass by, stop to rest,
Survey the drowsy keep, lob perhaps a
wilted cabbage head,
Shrug, and move on towards some other
more promising plunder geste.
From the high dudgeon then he may retire.
Back down to the long forgot
arras-veiled halls,
Where a table set for one (James)
waits in desultory grandeur.
A hank of beef, a goblet of wine, a loaf,
and the loafer left alone.
And here, all along he’d thought the sop
was intended for the betrayer,
not the sap.
poetastrophy 