Wenceslas! He Dead
Kiss my fetid arse, he mock Royal Family chortled,
and muttered chagrined at the Shrewsbury Six,
the Famous Five, and the silver sixpence
he always found coz he kept it in his waistcoat pocket.
He won’t get it this year. After all, it’s just
a feastday afternoon in the middle
of deep, dark december- a bit of fun.
So riot and dissemble, be not alone,
think of the others who have mice for family,
dining daintily on nice nibbles while
fellow peasants crave more presents and
pudding. So much to do and so little
time. Time to get it right. Just right. Surely,
that’s life after all is said and done.
A fuss about nothing, just sage & thyme
stuffing around since this time last year,
a plateful of woe, a glass full of tears.
And Uncle Norman’s toast.
Bless him.
‘Glaze your arses and roast myrhh hadyustate!
Cheers, my hearty farties,
don’t’ let it get you down,
tart it up in coriander,
and offer up your crown.’
Grimbeau 