Wenceslas! He Dead

by grimbeau

Grimbeau

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…

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