Montserrat

Blossomed wenches running through the castle
Brought fevered thoughts, his black eyes
Puffy with too much red wine,
His visions transforming into brutes now,
Soldiers fought long ago, the wenches
Disappearing in gossamer,
His head thumping from remembered bouts, his gout
Flaming now, his foot throbbing
With too many celebrations, too
Few conquests.

The Pope was right, his counsel good,
His motivations suspect.

Who would move the country now that he
Was ill?

Enflamed, he jumped up, his heart
Sounding distress.

Who would capture the Queen
Before the first snow?
Who could drive the killing shaft
Through that evil pretender?