Driven in a limousine,
By a black and peaked hat,
Flanked by gigantopitheci,
Who grunt at this and that.
Has he done the right thing,
To give the order thus?
Will he be remembered,
With fondness or disgust?
The apes open his front door,
“Sir, you‘re home again,”
He hangs his crown upon the stand,
And leaves his sceptre in the rain.
He bids the apes good evening,
And thanks them for their time,
Waves to the black and peaked hat,
Who hates this pantomime.
His kids no longer greet this man,
That turns up at their door,
He’s far too busy tending to,
The children he loves more.
Those kids aren’t even likeable,
They stamp their feet all day,
And complain and fuss and cry a lot,
If they don‘t get their way.
They never bring him paintings,
Or dinos made of cartons,
Just petitions, protests, pleas and plans,
And requests for shady pardons.
Now one ex-convict on the heath,
Has taken it to heart,
That he was smacked and sent to bed,
And still his arse cheeks smart.
One cold December night,
Warmed by his crusade,
He polishes the long-range scope,
For the morning’s cavalcade.
The king drinks from a goblet,
Sitting on his throne,
Entertained by jesters,
And their BBC monotones.
Once his drink is done,
He staggers up to bed,
But finds something on the way,
Upon the window-ledge.
A dino with no additives,
Or artificial colours,
More than can be said for him,
And his cabinet full of dullards.
Cradling this precious thing,
He climbs the stairs so steep,
And tip-toes across the landing,
To where his princes sleep.
He looks upon their faces,
And hears the angel chorus,
Absent-mindedly, he holds,
And pets the stegosaurus.
He says “Goodnight, my sons,”
And meanders to his bed,
Lamenting all the wasted time,
And things he should have said.
As the king reclines,
He feels a pang of sorrow,
And solemnly resolves to tell,
The princes why,