Look, I don’t know exactly how succession works,
But Charlemagne would—could not endure such
Blasphemy as the oeuvre of early crowning.
How, then, did the moniker
Implant itself enough in these short weeks that
Wrinkled imprints persist within the borders of
His eyes (the brows and lids), as
If to deride the See as scowling when the truth
Is he did first.
Tides and tithes rise at his arrival; what good
Are moons to kings who have the sky, at least
The brighter parts of it, out now where it once was
Locked. A tower maybe; more a pillory, and I’m not even
Cromwell. But to be truthful, in my stewardship of
Le Dauphine, I breached too quick, and shallow.
So then, if she, of noble title, French—we’re civil now—and
Thus obliged, at something so much lacking ceremony as
An inaugural late-noon nuclear lunch, placed the scepter at his feet,
And called him “King”, and as the eighth and ultimate, he silently
Accepts, who am I to question the existence of a pastry based
On the existence of frosting alone? Or would I rather chew the
Hard end of this pacifier in frustration?
I’ll take the cake.