Jack Debney
Oak-Apple Day
Insane, as all royalty must be
By their very presumption,
The little blueblood shit hid
From the Roundheads,
And was observed by another
Little shit but one of plebeian quality -
A farmboy, say, agape
At the graces bestowed on flight,
Royal posterior twisting to the trunk
As in some kind of weird mating,
Its temporary palace
Switched up into foliage and air.
A few yards over closed earth,
The prince spotted with oak-leaves
Looks fearfully down
And shushes the squinting farmboy
With gestures that really shriek for service,
Well-born, doff-souled equerries.
The Roundheads are searching below,
Threshing in from the rim of the land,
And whilst he might idly dice on
The royal bantling to escape
Or be skewered, the farmboy
Doesn’t tip the soldiers the wink,
Enter history, even in minor style.
It’s not a yearning for crowns and pomp,
Nor that the rents in princely breeches
Humanise that carnal fraction -
Just that you don’t flush out the quarry
If you’re not in the pack,
As once he crossed the fleet skedaddle
Of a fox and shook his head
When the hunt came up, Masters
There’s been no reynard here.
The earth pulls in sullen non-intent
And over its skin of pebble and clay
The farmboy goes with sticking feet
Like magnets - Oh, I didn’t snitch;
Antheming his, Not I, not I!
The times grumble and grate onwards,
But he’ll not be reminded,
England’s true son,
That once in his life he stumbled on destiny:
Blue-blooded and arse-outwards, up in a tree.
By their very presumption,
The little blueblood shit hid
From the Roundheads,
And was observed by another
Little shit but one of plebeian quality -
A farmboy, say, agape
At the graces bestowed on flight,
Royal posterior twisting to the trunk
As in some kind of weird mating,
Its temporary palace
Switched up into foliage and air.
A few yards over closed earth,
The prince spotted with oak-leaves
Looks fearfully down
And shushes the squinting farmboy
With gestures that really shriek for service,
Well-born, doff-souled equerries.
The Roundheads are searching below,
Threshing in from the rim of the land,
And whilst he might idly dice on
The royal bantling to escape
Or be skewered, the farmboy
Doesn’t tip the soldiers the wink,
Enter history, even in minor style.
It’s not a yearning for crowns and pomp,
Nor that the rents in princely breeches
Humanise that carnal fraction -
Just that you don’t flush out the quarry
If you’re not in the pack,
As once he crossed the fleet skedaddle
Of a fox and shook his head
When the hunt came up, Masters
There’s been no reynard here.
The earth pulls in sullen non-intent
And over its skin of pebble and clay
The farmboy goes with sticking feet
Like magnets - Oh, I didn’t snitch;
Antheming his, Not I, not I!
The times grumble and grate onwards,
But he’ll not be reminded,
England’s true son,
That once in his life he stumbled on destiny:
Blue-blooded and arse-outwards, up in a tree.
Page(s) 12-13
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