The Innisfree Poetry Journal
by Paul Grayson
We were driving somewhere, anywhere—
I in my nineties,
Lucia in her eighties—
Two widows in the back,
When I said,
We turn right at the next corner, Darling.
He said "darling," said the first widow;
Yes, he said "darling," said the second.
Charles the Second, aggrieved monarch—
His father decapitated,
He is a wandering beggar in those years of exile,
Waiting for his triumphal return—
He shakes his head and answers "Nay"
To the Commons in their pursuit of vengeance.
A strange man, a merry man:
Women flowed in and out of his bed
Like water in a sluice.
When one of them exclaimed
"Your majesty! What an honor! What good luck!"
Quoth the king, as he thrust deeply,
"Can the chatter, call me Chuck."
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