Heathcote would have raised an eyebrow,
Or smiled as he wrote of the rites behind royalty;
Nevermind David Icke and his lizards,
What Williams scribed scorched all seals;

From allegedly criminal acts to sexperimentation,;
From chaos to culling, and Marlowe’s murder,
Elizabeth ordained, deaths in Deptford and after
Let every one of his words test what’s real.

So, one must view this strange shop set up
At Buck House, or Balmoral, or Kensington Palace,
Or Windsor, or wherever it is they may roam
As stood on unsteady earth, due to the disarray dealt

Between Covid and the crown Charles has searched for,
As successive news set sense reeling, from the Sussex
Vampires (who would crush all nests for fame’s feathers),
To Kate’s cure and now cancer for a King whose crown

Could well be on loan, before being passed to his son,
Who has found a long love like his Dad and made distance
Romantic; in loving his wife and father, would William
Then have to rule not only over a divided land,

But a paterfamilias poised to splinter, as pain spears
A soldier who had to fight his Mum’s shadow
And a dead wife’s too to seem cool? If not to the kids,
Then to the ever persuadable public, or to those parts

Still remaining for whom a Republic threat is no joke,
Alongside those who stand up and spout that what
We have now whores all humour, and where the whole
Notion of royalty is in eating itself far from woke.

With one Prince paedo-filed, and one oddly absent.
Another, younger, in exile, is a condom of sorts for a wife
Who aches to fuck the world dry, so that she may
Cover it all in her climax, which seems so self referential

She may well masturbate in a mirror, coming for us
In all colours as she delivers and drips her dreamt strife.
There could even be an uncivil war, should Charles recede,
Borne by brothers, with one somewhat closed, but still noble

In honouring all that was. As the deluded second opens
To perform his common man shtick for millions, with his kids’
Names abusing both his Grandmother’s childhood and his
Working Class pose. Sad to say it, but you’ve put the C in runt,

Harry. Soz. So, now nobody need die. The deed’s done.
This is an infirm Institution. With Philip dead, as Delilah,
His Samsonite Queen felled the stone that held England up,
When she died. Now we live in dust. Rake through rubble’s

Ghost structure. As both in panic and plaster, we,
With time broken have never been so alone. The dust fate
Has spilt from the ruins roused at each moment is a dare
To the lung and to light and to just how much we can swallow.

Will we develop gills as we’re sinking, and as our muddied
Mouths spume with phlegm, and we return to the sea
Another Charles (Darwin) stirred with his eager finger;
But as Angelic harp strings split, what new music

Will now provide Requiem? So pity please for a man
Whom privilege damns despite dying. As it did in his birthing.
But Surgeons will soon operate to save and sustain
His short reign (as any would be when stood next

To his Mother’s), and Death of course is the duty
Overwhelming us all as we wait, for the next stage,
Or step to be redressed or rescinded. English history
Is all horror. Which genre then for its future? Not Noir.

AI rules us. So, all hail and all wail before the tainted
Tears of tradition. A new Science friction is waiting.
And it holds a mandate from which no love or line
                                          can escape.


                                           David Erdos 5/2/24







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