A “Carnal Cur” she called me.
One that had my teeth first free
To lap the gentle blood of lambs.
Me! Once a king, now accursed of four feet
A wet, cold nose, in this wretched heat.
Never did I buy a single soul!
Indeed, mine I sold for providence
And England. And now I am hence
A slave to fight for men’s merriment.
She cursed me, that Margaret, Queen
And wife of wretched history.
Chained here to fight for death.
And so, I fight. I fight the kings
Of ages past, all wicked things.
We fight, we kings returned.
We fight to tear the faces off
The others, surrounding us a trough
Of blood, and spit, and flesh.
Our flesh. And at the end, I cry.
I grieve my cursed soul and the lie
That bore me here again to death.
I am King Richard III! Do they not know?
Across from me, red eyes aglow,
Was once a Caesar snarling.
Yesterday, I ripped the throat of Hitler
As they cheered. His bones now brittler
Than a chicken’s neck.
I am done now. Weary of my fate,
I whimper to no one. No love, just hate.
Done. Spent. Blood at the light of end.