Go pimp to minors, act for potentates,
Receive the King of Kings, the Three Estates:
You'll famish your fraternal, flattened head,
And diet on the Lord's unleavened bread.
Sons follow mothers, swallow when they're fed,
Or the switched king goes supperless to bed.
Footstool to tutors, father of the realm,
He'll
kiss
my regent's rod to touch the helm.
Nuns must instruct him, sharpers plan his play–
I'll split each second in each single day,
Until his kingship seem a circus ground,
Where clowns on horseback, pricking round and round,
Unhorse their doubles, ring within a ring-
The grasping child, the unremitting king.
All earth is growing ... Kings have died in sport ...
But you, my Husband? Murder cut you short.
Your great nerve gone, Sire, sleep without a care;
Though English pirates hanged off Finisterre
Toss in their shotted hammocks to the sea,
Will water dam our blood at Saint Denis?
There chiseled bolster and Carrara hound
Show no emotion when we kiss the ground.
Look, seasons circle to the scyther's ring
Of gleaning children; king must follow king,
And walk the plank to his immortal leap.
My son is adding inches in his sleep,
I hear his red confessor weigh Versailles.
Sing lullaby, my Son, sing lullaby.
My child has nightmares. Rock him, he will cry
For seal and scepter, ask the queen to die ...
And so I press Concini's palm to mine;
I am his vintage, for his living vine
Entangles me and oozes mortal wine
Moment to moment. By repeated crime
Even a queen survives her little time.
But you, my Husband? How you used to look
For blood and pastime!
If
you ever took
Unfair advantages by right of birth,
Pardon the easy virtues of the earth
