Many years ago i helped manage my father in Law's rental properties. I met many of the tennants, mostly lonely old Men and Women. Each had a story to tell. From time to time i would come across a story so fantastic it had to be true .
This is the true story of a man, too frightened to return to his Homeland where,because of his birth right, he would be persecuted. He preferred to stay in Australia, and suffer the false persecution of imagined insanity.

Dedicated to The Archduke, Prince Andre' Of Slovenia. My Freind.
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He sat on the bed nursing his drink
His eyes had that far away gaze
He creased his brow, trying to think
Through the pills and alcohol haze.

Spoke of his youth in the place of his birth,
Of great royal Balls in palaces grand.
A time of gaiety, laughter and mirth,
Of Princes and Dukes, and Duchesses grand.

He’d walked by the side of Great Kings and Queens.
Lived in a palace, servants to await his command.
Murals and paintings of great hunting scenes.
He spoke of the beauty of his ancient homeland.


Delusions of grandeur, the hospital said
When they’d carried him in through the door
Electric shock treatment, tied to a bed.
Ignored when he screamed, “Please! No more”.

He wept as he told of the things they had done
To change his delusional thought.
His life was destroyed most memories gone.
When he’d come to this place, twas freedom he sought.

Now he just sat, drinking and lost in his dreams
He who once was a prince, is now just a drunk
His dreams are now nightmares; all’s not what it seems.
He wept when he saw the level he’d sunk.

I was there when the old man drew his last breath
I held back my tears when he held out his hand
Saying, “ Please tell my children of my noble death”.
He smiled and returned to his land.

I packed all his things for his next of kin.
Under his bed found a great metal box
I looked and I wondered, what lay therein.
So I searched and I found, the keys to both locks.

When I opened it up, I sucked in my breath.
At the knowledge my friend, was not mad
The truth had been there, till after his death
With wonder I examined the treasures he had

Photos and papers, letters yellowed and old
A framed black and white, a white horse he did sit
Straight backed and proud, mighty and bold
His sword in his hand, his uniform tailored to fit.

There in the bottom, his uniform lay
Slightly crumpled and musky with age
His boots were all polished awaiting the day
Once again great battles he’d wage.

I found am old wallet, embossed, leather bound
Some papers were folded therein
I could not read them, did not understand.
The crest was a double Griffin

Joe read me the papers that night in his home
If only they’d known, what I know today
Bout my friend who died so far from home.
My friend, The Archduke, Prince Andre’

When they buried Andre’ There were many that came.
His country folk came from near and afar.
They’d built him a Tomb with his crest and his name.
In the Heavens there shines a new star.

Robin. A Spicer © 2003-10-01