Henry The Eight
passed through the gates,
of a lost
and broken town.
A grin upon a hollow face,
another jewel upon the crown.
And as he rode high on his horse.
A royal nose
raised to the sky.
An Irishman upon the crowd,
was plotting out
his way to die.

He'd followed him from Kensington...
a thousand paces.....
well behind.
Hiding in the shadows...
everyone at home in mind.
With every step
a memory,
another valid reason why.
He kissed the cross
hung from his neck,
knowing he was going to die.....