For St Cross

An old anticlerical ensign is swaying
On Holy Cross scaffold – Don John he is back
And I watched him, walking, to deliver my poem,
My captain and king, in my treacherous way.

I thought, “You old bastard, how have you come slinking
Now driven from Bailleul-en-Vimeu, from England
Somewhere in the north, brooding Castle at Barnard,
From penning one lion and licking another,
Away from Galloway, the thistle, the rose –
Rubbished at Annan and scrubbed by Ben Jowett
To preach out the Greeks and love don’t you just know it
I’ll throw it
Kow-tow it
The towers of Jowett

Beat out of the academe, sold down the river
For top-tier nothings, you spent your last penny
On a quiet grave orchard more worthy than any?

God damn you, Lord John, and King John of Toom Tabard
And whatever of your bounty hanged in my scabbard
I cast it aside for the Mulvanine blackguard
To play prophylactics. If son of mine bear
A thread of the blood makes him Balliol’s heir

God burn out his breath
Or the devil at best.
And the heavens bless Rebecca Marsh and the rest."