Such Is The Breath

No one, then, loved America like George –

Not Washington, not Bush, the uber George –

The Royal George, the Bennett-destined King.


She spurned him lengthily; he could not know

That he must renounce her, nor could he plan

For it. He looked with certainty at maps,

A real, if an amorous, kind of love.


“Bring me Lord North.” “Your Majesty.”

“Ah, North. Good, just the chap.

Tell me about this stretch over here,

The colony I see is named Maryland.”

“My liege, of Marilyn I’ll tell you all.”


“Marilyn!?

Wait, North, you mean to say

That all the time I’m miscarried that name?”

“You are incapable of such, Sire. Recall indeed

The English language is your fief, the stress,

Orthography, doctor, dictionary, all.”


“Shut up, North. Don’t you see this matters to me.

I have plans. When we have hanged the troublemakers there

I want a summer-palace high in…Marilyn.

The Queen mentioned it quite the other night.

The climate’s good, the people sturdy folk,

Protestant, and unplagued by dicing-dives,

Which pleases me; I’ll curb the Princes’ debts.”

“The plan is feasible, certes, my liege.”


***

A King has Sport, and Rights, and Breath,

And optimism is a fitting train.

I’ll bite a warning into my cheek’s side,

But still when morning smudges indistinct,

I’ll frame your daughters’ lineaments;

Solve their quarrels, sort their rooms.