smokingboot

In the year of my death,
You had croup and your mother
Made the last priest in Troy pray for your lungs.
I had left you both then
In a cave on a mountainside
While my treasure ships rolled heavy
And a knife waited at home.

In the year of my death
Carcassonne; that was interesting.
You mowed me down, of course,
Screaming about heretics
I recalled knowledge of swords
Before I had a womb
But all I had time to do was scream back.

In the year of my death,
The good ship De Montfort: I counted you in
Chained profit, somehow with diptheria
Which killed you all and lost me my deposit.
Landed in Liverpool with sweet nothing
But a blade some strumpet turned on me
Yelling I had abandoned her.

In the year of my death
Hamburg: I was a doctor
A pulmonary specialist with a patient
When I heard the humming overhead
You reached my home, I never did again.
Oh, I didn't know you then
But I knew your work.

In the year of my death
I break the mad wheel,
Bored with this, and as for you,
You must be sick of me!
I pick the tree to root around my bones
And sweep the air so that a world
Of strangers and you wake, forget me, breathe.