Hoi polloi cider-joyed and kingringed lordlings eiderdowned
Cavorting under one roof, hearthfires zenith to a point
A bored portal around which scrawl
Esculent-redolent miasms lingering like kicked dogs
Spasming phantasms in Caesar seizures
Grog, groping, the mind fogging.
Yawning eyes to awning’s eaves attention pay
Adam’s eyes to Eve, morning of the sixth day
Night before Agincourt, from protesting mouth
Hum of rank cider and seditious king doubt
Tired of fifth Hal’s growling
Longbow resting
Sipping a bowlful
Dolefully loathing
Whether hailing damp Albion, tomorrow powerful
Or Dauphin, sun champion oriflammed and flowerful.
In cups emboldened, unwise pint too many
Too merry mayhaps, self declaring traitors
Trays arrive litre-laden with liquid mayhem
Then, later, empty glasses are taken away.
Awake at waning light, wan night wakening to livid excess
Awake at morning, Lord’s fake address and invisible dress
None redress, no Simons of Cyrene left
Arising sated, head throbbing warningly.
“Tie the knot with me”
Forked tongue offers a whore
Recalling faintly as if in dainty dream
In too keenness let spill beans to a Francine vixen
Told would kill many men, unto an English victory.
Rest writ int’ history, wet ink.
Love’s target
Targe fletched with culprits
Yard fletched, splintered misses
Let slip news of marshes
Boot-gripping, slippy
At Agincourt, force therewith
He who comes forth after fourth,
Whose tenses are gloried present
And presentimented future
He who tennising with gunstones, diseased by otherness
Will all kneeling nations o’erreign
Who all defiant to will constrain will, gravely
He who even now as he shaves in his flapping tent’s shade
Digs a grave, full fathoms five, which in lies Lady France
Shaking Arc de Triomphe to scree.
In the French parlour
Who kissed you
Loose-lipped archer
Who slipped you
Oath-untying lucre
Was it a Lucifer
Whom treachery induced
Or one more elusive
Regardless, arrows flew
Some loosed by Cheshire Archers, beloved Ricardian pages
Bodies due them mired, tugging stuck boots.
Coven in my woven cloak’s colours
Conniving covin of united loners
Is anything so loathsome and laughable as a cult of two
Folie à deux
He leaves, abjuring adieu
Skirting gates, cock unawake
In view of none
Luna steadfast but losing
Bruised by dishonour
Slinking dishonestly
Canalled tents mist betwixt.
Guilted much but to himself saying of such
What’s done is done
Come sun the speeches, France’s impeachment
Advance of regiment gleaming, regicide-primed
Imminent death of six thousand French knights
They merry few, brothers banded in mandatory agape
Will deliver this land unto their king, or die trying
It is their climate this morning, cold and biting
Little exciting a French, acclimated to solarity
Such polarities, such solidarities in the Britonic force
Such shining from their lances, polearms and dirks
French army stymied in mires lined with arrows
Dying porcupined, survivors suffer wounds ayenbiting
I pray thee wish not one man more.
Alchemisland 
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