Hot on the literary heels of our new resident poet’s introductory verse, ‘A Love Affair With Brown’, arrives this poetic epic, ‘An Ode To Richard III’. Shortly after the shocking discovery of the former King Of England in a popular Leicester dogging spot, The House Of York decided upon commissioning the then Poet Laureate to produce a fitting poem, the intention being that the late King would be immortalised in verse-like fashion. However, the House Of York is not what it once was, and its entitlements do not include making demands of the Poet Laureate as if he or she were some subordinate pup. As such, they have had to cast their net slightly wider, thus capturing the attention of England’s wealth of local poets.
Croyland’s second poem to feature at the nicely-carpeted Poetry Hallway is his tribute to the fallen king, to whom he refers as "a true Majesty”. In the accompanying letter, he went on to say, "… King Richard 111 [sic] could teach [the current Monarchy] a thing or two about how to run things.” We can only presume that Croyland is either thinking of another king or has scant regard for human life.
Alas, Croyland’s entry was rejected, firstly on the grounds that he broke part 5c of the competition rules, that “no one should make reference to Richard III’s alleged involvement in the disappearance of his nephews”, and secondly because the competition moderators didn’t think it was any good. Moderator Langley Ibsen summed up the House of York’s feelings: “We’re sorry to disqualify your entry so close to the finals, but we’re really confused as to how your poem, An Ode To Richard III, made it through the initial selection. It’s really not what we’re looking for.”
An Ode To Richard III
Richard the Third, how I wish you were here,
To see all the fuss being made of your up-dig,
It’s very well known that Leicester is short,
Of int’resting stuff; nothing there has been so big.
True, you may receive stick for killing your family,
Tho’ I’m sure they were brattish and spoilt and rotten.
And if they were also here, living the royal life,
You’d rather they were dead, decayed and forgotten.
So I’ll lift up my pint glass and drink to your death,
‘Cos to drink to your health would be oddly misleading.
But I promise if cloning returns you to breathing,
I’ll be the first to give you a kingly good feeding.