This Poem was Submitted By: Thomas Edward Wright On Date: 2002-02-13 00:21:25 . . . Click Here To Mail this Poem to a Friend!

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King John and His Men at Balmoral

The royal archers loitered on  The periphery, calculating the Necessary angles, longbows in hand. The pike men, nasty lechers all, Cast lots to decide whose Sister would pay for the losses. Knights in shining armor Settled skittish steeds, sure That victory was nigh. His Silver Sword clanked as The King's black stallion Cantered and snorted. John Rose up high in the stirrups, Brought breath to bear, and Released a shrill uncanny Screech not human, while His warriors replied with An incomparable cry. Forward, onward, upward Into battle they flew. Dark clouds hovered, Lightning flashed, the scent Of death thickly, sickly, and  O’er the din, moans and throaty Groans rose in a deathly chorus  As hooves crushed skulls, Maces met faces. Pain pinged off the parapets, Swords slashed, horses galloped; A handsome stable boy floated In the vat of boiling oil that Had already pickled significant  Sections of his neo-cortex, (an Appetizer of sorts) these were The images threatening to  Replace hunger with fear. The cries of the innocents lingered within the once empty valley.   Loved ones, neighbors, friends: Gone, transported away, or, Worse, left behind as decorations, Litter, actually; a smattering of Humanity upon the igneous Accretions of eons they once  Knew as home.  Johnny! Shit! What the hell was that? I…gotta go…Call you later!   Don’t touch a thing. And such is the life of John, now no longer king, But kid, whose men await the morrow. A King’s work is never done! Huzzah!

Copyright © February 2002 Thomas Edward Wright


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