Apr 2017
oh! woe is me and woe is thee,
this noble, royal but blighted line,
this now benighted House of York,
its reign hath ended,
its famous, familiar format felled by an
enhancing, advancing Tudor technology blade,
and now lays bloodied in Bosworth Field,
both Richard III and
his Boswell biographer,
Sir Eliot of York,
no more,
unto history's flocculent dust of bones and
lost manuscripts
now forever
consigned
the lathe of mocking shouts of
"Long Live the King,"
cut the fingertips still searching too many
pull down menus,
all penned in a modern
faint hearted font
these guides,
some above and some below,
their exact location discoverable
only by the pain of new childbirth,
not worthy Maestro,
of the indignity
of trial and error
'pon my soul, these menus,
alas, give no guidance intuitive on
how to save this, my newest folio,
in the lady-in-waiting status of
draft
history is a usurping, scheming Mother Queen,
seeking power advantageous for her own issue,
but new bloodlines gain ascendancy inevitable,
but this focal turning point,
came upon us yeoman folk unannounced,
like a medieval black plague slaughtering
our poetic composure -
why were we not consulted?
hath England not taught us plainer folks,
the singular lesson of tradition,
the value immense of retaining
what has gone before,
that all hallowed must be kept,
and some changes
turned aside,
another cheek of change,
must be refused!
'tis no accident of fate
that the Crown Jewels
in the Tower
do reside,
the selfsame place many other
Kings and Queens
were Tudor dispatched to meet a ****** end
the smiling, soothing sayers
gentle the troubled masses,
with whimsy and whimpers of
"this too shall pass,"
and promises that the contempt of familiarity,
shall soon enroll and enfold
all untended and now untenured objections
but my memories yet mourn the loss of
simpler times and a simple place that welcomed an Ameddican
back in nought '13, and where he has placed his trust
in its servers and its Yorkshire servant to keep his
thousand plus poems pillowed safe
so no more changes,
by your leave,
do not forget the no longer mighty Tudors,
were themselves felled by times childless ravages,
no more emendations,
if you please,
lest these hoary hairs mine yet turn,
a whiter shade of pale
surely undesired,
yet one more revolution
from these formerly
English shores to come arising,
haunting thine
venerated palaces of poetry!
this noble, royal but blighted line,
this now benighted House of York,
its reign hath ended,
its famous, familiar format felled by an
enhancing, advancing Tudor technology blade,
and now lays bloodied in Bosworth Field,
both Richard III and
his Boswell biographer,
Sir Eliot of York,
no more,
unto history's flocculent dust of bones and
lost manuscripts
now forever
consigned
the lathe of mocking shouts of
"Long Live the King,"
cut the fingertips still searching too many
pull down menus,
all penned in a modern
faint hearted font
these guides,
some above and some below,
their exact location discoverable
only by the pain of new childbirth,
not worthy Maestro,
of the indignity
of trial and error
'pon my soul, these menus,
alas, give no guidance intuitive on
how to save this, my newest folio,
in the lady-in-waiting status of
draft
history is a usurping, scheming Mother Queen,
seeking power advantageous for her own issue,
but new bloodlines gain ascendancy inevitable,
but this focal turning point,
came upon us yeoman folk unannounced,
like a medieval black plague slaughtering
our poetic composure -
why were we not consulted?
hath England not taught us plainer folks,
the singular lesson of tradition,
the value immense of retaining
what has gone before,
that all hallowed must be kept,
and some changes
turned aside,
another cheek of change,
must be refused!
'tis no accident of fate
that the Crown Jewels
in the Tower
do reside,
the selfsame place many other
Kings and Queens
were Tudor dispatched to meet a ****** end
the smiling, soothing sayers
gentle the troubled masses,
with whimsy and whimpers of
"this too shall pass,"
and promises that the contempt of familiarity,
shall soon enroll and enfold
all untended and now untenured objections
but my memories yet mourn the loss of
simpler times and a simple place that welcomed an Ameddican
back in nought '13, and where he has placed his trust
in its servers and its Yorkshire servant to keep his
thousand plus poems pillowed safe
so no more changes,
by your leave,
do not forget the no longer mighty Tudors,
were themselves felled by times childless ravages,
no more emendations,
if you please,
lest these hoary hairs mine yet turn,
a whiter shade of pale
surely undesired,
yet one more revolution
from these formerly
English shores to come arising,
haunting thine
venerated palaces of poetry!
seriously, I like the new format though I must say finding my way around on a small iPhone is not trial and error, but trial by fire!
