What scurvy knave would abhor Your Majesty?
Your might and mercy I implore, Your Majesty.
Poets and punks give props to your noble heart
In Lackawanna, in Labrador, Your Majesty.
Your splendour shines on sage and ragamuffin,
On base tycoon, on blessèd whore, Your Majesty.
Behold, bright apples from your cloistered orchard
With seeds of grace wombed in the core, Your Majesty!
Restless bedlamites seek your remedial glance:
Look upon Lazarus, heal each sore, Your Majesty!
From your proud footprints, vivid violets spring:
Acolytes genuflect. Wretches adore Your Majesty!
Sweet tyrant, lissome potentate, pronounce!
Command me, I shall not ignore Your Majesty.
You have ravished me, O Monday morning star:
I forfeit all my strength and store, Your Majesty.
I've seen no features livelier than yours
Since the April ice-storm of '84, Your Majesty!
I fling rose-petals before your delicate tread:
Where you have stepped, I kiss the floor, Your Majesty.
My golden words are spent, my wit's diseased:
Pray, reign in my soul's Elsinore, Your Majesty.
Poor Tom, he has not art to reckon his groans:
Please don't mock this troubadour, Your Majesty.
Poetry by Thomas D
Read 79 times
Written on 2020-08-09 at 17:31
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