[Don Jones]

False Anglican this isle, once true White Rose
Of York. September sun finds me a gnome
With a serpent’s spine to those who loathe me still.
Unfit for war my slender arms, they say?
I had unhorsed John Cheyne* in my race
To kill Welsh Henry and his dormant seed
That sprouted fat blasphemer—anti-Pope!—
And ransacked monasteries, shattered shrines,
Obliterating traces of my grave.
E’en Becket’s bones were smashed to dust and hurled.
All this Northumberland’s betrayal wrought!
No hunchback after all, no withered arm,
Last king to fight and die in battle, I.
Behold who walks above my tar-paved tomb:
Unwarlike, coddled, heretics abound!
I'd have prevented them had I my crown.

*Two syllables.