And it starts in the 15th century
some old washed up court poet’s
praises and fame
wasn’t really giving him what he wanted any more.
What he wants,
what he wants is a women,
but all’s he got is words.
So he sits in his high tower
sits at the desk
packs his pipe and lights it
smokes, looks, and scribbles,
then moves to his unmade bed
where he dreams of the women
in a checkered dress
with a little corner tore off from a rose bush,
a nice book of poems in her hands,
but oh lord not his poems
not his poems about the lord.
Her toes and her fingers
are stretched out on linen
so clean to the touch.
And her eyes open wide
and her lips part.
If she was there he would write about her
but now he sees throughout her, skin flushed with life
and he lets out a noise
and tosses the rag aside
ooooh, falls asleep.
The next week he is in line for execution
cause of a poem laid out for the queen.
His muse got in the words
only cause he wrote her in there.
There are only so many ways to praise the king
but that absolute women just seems to stretch on and on and on.
His head got lopped off;
it was oh so worth it.
He looked up for a second before the end
and there she was crying
he felt filled with blood,
making this poet’s last noise a laugh.