Sunday, August 24, 2014

His Majesty

Two-foot-two (and a shaving or more),
Wild curls a comb has fought through,
He gives commands in the royal roar
All Monarchs use-or ought to.
His court is a garden where young winds play,
His throne has a sand shovel in it,
And here in his kingdom he rules all day
Over cricket, and lilac, and linnet.
His castle's a bungalow built for three,
His army's a pup and a kitten,
On which, if there's one hint of laxity,
Will fall his imperial mitten.
All day he governs the roses and phlox
But after the garden's gone shady
And the army is curled in its kitchen box
He descends to his lord and lady!


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