He's King Louis.
I went to school with the regency.
He's superfluous, and
he taught me grammatical consistency.
Since the first day of education,
he showed me cultural emancipation
behind the bleachers in the gymnasium,
between three and six on Wednesday afternoons.
He wore a crown of indignation
to guide him in his transmigration
of lines no boy should cross.
He takes the bait from all the teachers
and all the handshakes from the preachers
until it's not just the heat that makes King Louis swoon.
The priests, they tell him in their French,
"Tard de Monarque se viendra repentir!"
Much, much too late, the little wretch.
King Louis knows arithmetic, and
he listens to The Smiths with it
and thinks the rumors just aren't fair.
He knows the kids are uncouth gits
and all their sweaters are too loosely knit
and they don't spend nearly enough time on their hair.
Because he was King Louis,
time spend wading through the past is not a fling,
but a testament to getting up and staying there.