The golden crown of reverence
Upon an aged head sits,
Casts an empty light of glamour
Beating the ‘strange’ to bits.
Your words amaze the plebs’ delight
And weaklings sing your praise,
Your monarch pen can cast them stars
To keep them full for days.
Your words lack tact but pass as law
And thoughts are hymns and creed,
Within your sight they genuflect
And your commandments heed.
Run the shadows, fleeing bellows
That strange a picture paint,
Not to follow royal decrees
To keep it ever quaint.
Spout your meters, lifeless verses
In lines of two or four,
And shining gems not your color
Please gladly do ignore.
© Antonio Beardall