A New Poem

Hello friends,

Just one poem this week, but it’s a new one and it’s long. The poem, DEATH OF A TROUBADOUR, consists of six rime royal stanzas in iambic tetrameter.

Enjoy! (And if you do, please consider supporting my work by purchasing either The Robots of Babylon or my new omnibus edition Knit Ink (and Other Poems).)

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DEATH OF A TROUBADOUR

I shook myself from Camden Town
and took the path to Golders Green,
to entertain the Rose and Crown,
where wealthy nobles run the scene....
     I plucked my harp, for King and Queen.
     I played a tune of fine repute.
     Too long I go — no gig, no loot!

The boozers mooed and booed at me,
but through the beers and jeers I sang,
until a man, with grievous glee,
came charging from the crowd — and swang.
     He split my lip; he cracked a fang;
     he gave my crotch a mighty boot.
     Too long I go, no gig, no loot....

I limped to Hampstead’s Dog and Duck,
with blood across my shirt and snout.
I thought I’d found some better luck;
alas, the landlord kicked me out:
     he yelled and gave my harp a clout;
     he told me where to stick my flute.
     Too long I go, no gig, no loot....

Illumined by the laughing moon,
I trudged to Highgate’s Golden Mace,
resolved to sing my tender tune —
yet barely had I reached the place
     when I was forced again to face
     a beating from a boorish brute.
     Too long I go, no gig, no loot....

He jabbed my ribs and grabbed my neck.
He stabbed my gut and cracked my jaw.
He threw me to the sodden deck.
I spat my teeth across the floor.
     I tried to stand — but, back for more,
     the bastard whacked my bloody snoot.
     Too long I go, no gig, no loot....

With broken hands and harp, I crawled
the muddied track, my bloodied sight
in search of light. In dirt, I sprawled,
resigned to lose my final fight.
     It hadn’t been my finest night.
     I should have gone the other route.
     Too long, I go: No gig. No loot.