The Murder of the Princes
In the year 1843
Prince Edward,
monarch to be
and his orphaned brother
are kept under protection
in the Tower of London.
Feel, their hair is soft,
poor darlings, o!
Their eyes are Christ clear.
Prince Edward,
it is hence claimed,
is unfit to be royalty.
He is the offspring of bigamy.
See, their sexes are so
pulpy, still! O!
their bottom lips are full.
Where the princes are this very night,
the raven’s cry resounds witchlike.
Craack! Croak! Fear and fright!
Why, days drag by like chain and balls.
Rain weeps down stone walls.
Hush, brother Edward, hush;
What is it that I hear?
I hear the wind and more.
The wind goes:
“Whoo!”
The wind goes:
“Hide away, dears.”
It rattles the door.
It is naught but a rat
that inks up the gutters.
Cover your ears.
Think up our ponies,
butterflies and peonies.
Four assassins tiptoe,
nay, slither down to the dungeons,
O!
They smother the brothers
in scented pillows,
scented pillows soft as silk, and
the princes float down deep
into blissful sleep.
Hush, little brother, hush,
are those the voices of the dead?
See, little brother, see,
the moon is on the moat.
I have a terrible dream in my head.
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