The King In The Tree

Blonde was the sovereign
Who scrambled and climbed
Up his own private Yggdrasil
Tree of life.
Preserved like treasures
In stomachs of saints
And livers of knights,
Fecundities of countryside
Forestalled and ended
An early bath
Where the blonde becomes bald
In formaldehyde.

To make his escape
From Roundheads redoubled
He dressed as a lumberjack
Redundant of axe,
He dressed as a servant
Redundant of ass,
He spied on his rivals less ribald troubles
As they scythed through
Woodland rabbit-paths;
Between secrets of acorns he listened,
Foresaw how Roundhead
Helmets would glisten
Beneath a Shropshire basking
In puritanical sunlight.

To this day he pays annuities
For usage of the oak
And farmer’s hay.
From Shrewsbury to Durham
It’s all the same;
Courtiers remunerated more
Than officers and nurses
For keeping weary
Electorates guessing,
And the saints as well
For all their blessings,
Safer then is wealth man-made

To fund partisan coffers
Maintaining the wounds
Of truth while bandages
Are sold on special offer
In sanitisation aisles
Beside the bleach and barbeques.
He has no use for woodland now,
No gain from roots;
Canopies and verdant boughs
Bring neither shade nor profit;
So with ironies of cavaliers

And all the seers sacked,
He summoned several Ministers
To dig up every Oak and Ash,
Alders and Horse Chestnuts,
Every tree that ever lived
In fact, and unplugged
Subscriptions for petitions
And forgiveness.
So never again could
Excellencies be compelled
To hide in silence, betrayed
By leaves and acorn shells.

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