This appeared in Angle.
The king is dead. Oh, no, he's not. He's resting,
What with his busy week, dissolving monks
And roasting papists with a garlic clove
And celery stalk apiece. He raised the tax
On gingham. His monopoly on dust,
More valuable than mail, he auctioned off
to the new Chancellor of the Campanile.
The belles, the belles: they're gathering out front,
Leaning against portcullis rails, in wigs
As high as cotton candy and as pink.
Teased and tormented in the cages above
The gate, the entertainment, curled like shrimp,
Moans, and the would-be guests whistle and stomp.
The ball begins with Taffelmusik. Bits
Of quarter-note-shaped ice bob in the punch
Just long enough to clarify the king's
Intentions: he would dip the band in tar,
The perfect pitch a torch unto the blind,
And all be spared who buy a savings bond.
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