The True King of England

The true King of England
sits in his vest
and scowls at the news.

On the sofa:
empty pizza boxes,
crumpled genealogies,

the next few beers.
On the mantelpiece,
some odd mementoes:

a curious medal,
a worn sepia face,
an oliphant horn.

Outside he doesn't bother
with the pub anymore,
just the park

and the minimart.
The kids on the estate
daub his door.

He thinks the police
are watching him.
And he wonders about the birds.

David Callin

 
If you have any thoughts on this poem, David Callin would be pleased to hear them.