I told myself I would stop writing poems like this, but
Old pilgrims checked off of their list
a stone fleeing monarchs had kissed.
The weavers newscastered
that William the Bastard
had origins in mythos and mist.
When Richard the Zionheart chose
to undo what the olive tree sows,
his way to uproot
the soul with the shoot
was different from Sykes and Picotís.
The Stuarts threw orgies in France
on the tails of a new renaissance
of Shakespeare and Donne
and species of fun
all promptly shot down by a glance
from the aspect of Oliver Cromwell.
The Hanovers did not salaam well;
though failing to read
their Edward Said
they studied the maps of Assam well.
Subalterns now seek to repugn
the cutaneous damages done
in the glare of the glorious
reign of Victoriaís
halcyon day in the sun.
The Edwards grew limper and limper.
Elizabeth worked on her simper.
A poet once sang
that what starts with a bang
will go out in a definite whimper.