The New Murrey and Blue blog

‘Twas Christmas Eve after Bosworth, the feast had been brill,
but the Camembert* was vengeful, and Henry was ill.
He’d gorged on a surfeit of Brie so scrumptious,
and gobbling the Roquefort made him feel nauseous.

As he curled up in bed, his innards were churning.
Cheeses floated before him, constantly turning.
His eyes he did close. “Please, Lord, let me sleep.
Let me count someone else’s fine, fat sheep.”

Bosworth had drained him, he was still exhausted.
He’d fought like a hero (so he’d had it purported),
but whenever he boasted for all he was worth,
he heard Richard’s horse pounding the turf!

Richard the Third, let his name be forgotten,
may his deeds be besmirched and his fame be rotten.
How dared he be handsome, the object of heartache!
While Henry’s eyes were a-wonk and his smile like a snake!

"But now who's the king?" Henry scoffed with a smirk,
for he was no longer a snivelling jumped-up jerk! 
'Cos he had the crown, and the throne under his bum,
and he slept in the best bed in the whole kingdom.

But his face was artful and sneaky and sly,
rendering his eyes even more awry.
He had to wed someone to get him an heir.
Oh, not just one heir, but a few more to spare.

Turning over in bed, he was alone, without love,
but he'd wed Richard's niece, if push came to shove.
A pesky white rose to be his new queen.
Oh, God rescue his poor Tudor spleen!

He wanted no wife who'd cause him more strife.
Couldn't he be king, on his own, all his life?
But no, he could not, for he had to beget
as many as need be to make a full set.

How tiresomely rampant he’d have to be,
servicing his queen like a damned worker bee.
‘Cos bonking alone produced heirs to a crown,
so she’d lie there and yawn while he bounced around!

Henry was never a chivalrous heart-warming chap
and stuffing on French cheese made him feel like crap!
So he did whine with self-pity inside his cocoon,
while outside an eerie white boar now circled the moon!

But French cheese choked Henry’s mortal parts
and he missed the harbinger up in the stars.
So he failed to detect the moon’s dire warning
of untold horrors before Christmas morning.

Then his ears were beset by a ghastly clamour,
the clanking and clonking of a man in full armour!
Rebellion already? But his reign hadn’t begun!
He’d only just had his coronation!

Henry shuddered more as the noises drew close,
and he pulled the covers right up to his nose.
The door burst open and Henry did squeak,
as in strode a phantom with a gruesome shriek.

In too came the boar, and Henry’s dragon most cross.
If its master was frightened it gave not a toss,
but it had to support him, so perched on the bed,
while longing to be back with its missus instead.

Up surged the Brie with which Henry was sate,
but it too shrank back from the fiend in gold plate.
Then the ghoul was gleeful as its visor it raised.
Richard the Third! Henry’s eyes became glazed.

“So there you are Tydder, you vile, lanky pustule!
How dare you invade to end my just rule!
Well, now I have you so bang to rights,
that I simply can’t miss you, you’re square in my sights!”

“Oh, spare me, Richard, I’m really a good boy!
‘Twas Mummy wot plotted, ’twas all her ploy.
If I hadn’t obeyed ‘twould have been to my rue,
and she’d have revelled in letting me stew.”

“Oh, shut up, Tudor, you sad piece of work!
A liar, a con artist and bit of a berk.
I’m here to compel you to be all mopey,
to apply the screws and make you quite ropey.”

“I’ve practiced the most blood-curdling screams,
to twist your guts ‘til they split at the seams.
To scare you so much you’re left quite witless,
and oh, dear me, maybe even left sh-tless!”

The dragon did laugh at this thought ignominious,
For truly poor Henry did look so bilious.
His face was quite ghastly and his courage failing
as from the bed he erupted, arms flailing.

Then, hiding his face, he knelt to implore
“Oh Richard, being king is really a bore.
Please take back the crown and return to the helm,
while I toddle back to that friendly French realm.”

“My first choice would be Brittany,
But they’ve had enough of me.
I’ll do what you want, but just go away,
and never come back another day.”

“I’ve stuffed too much at my Christmas Eve feast
A whole Roquefort’s inside me at the very least.
‘Twas followed by Brie and Camembert too,
bubbling and baneful as they begin to brew!”

“I couldn’t care less!” Richard cried in derision,
as his axe he wielded with deadly precision.
He cracked the bedpost into myriad splinters,
putting huge strain on Henry’s rear sphincter.

With a yowl like a tomcat, the usurper did flee,
with Richard pursuing, as fast as can be,
The disloyal dragon just had to giggle,
to see its master’s faint-hearted pickle.

Henry scampered full pelt, like a mad March hare 
as the axe swung again, slicing the air. 
He beat a retreat and ran like the clappers, 
his dignity gone, his heart pitter patter.

“Mummy! Please save me! Richard is here!
I’m scared stiff, dear Mummy, don’t let him near!”
Mummy’s door opened wide, as did her eyes
as her son whistled past her, bent half his size.

Of all his foes, Richard loathed Maggie the most,
as she saw quite clearly as she faced his ghost.
She’d always been shifty and plotted such treachery.
If she thought it would stick, she’d accuse him of lechery.

She’d spread all manner of shocking rumour,
and did it with loathing that really consumed her.
But Richard was a good lord, constant and faithful,
so Maggie just stood there with visage most hateful.

“Oh, Mags, see your son, so whey-faced and gutless?
You’d best rub his tum, which retches its utmost.
But be warned in advance, my dear Lady Stanley,
when you turn up your toes, I’ll be ready and handy.”

“So pray for yourself, but I fear your dear son,
your spouse and his bro’ will go to Satan!”
Maggie stared, truly speechless,
then fell on the floor, quite senseless.

Brandishing his axe, Richard stepped inside,
to petrify his prey more, as a matter of pride.
Henry’s knees were a-shake, he was in such a state
as his foe advanced with a menacing gait.

Then the ghost gave vent to a mighty bellow!
(Richard had to rehearse, for his real voice was mellow)
Henry’s innards gave up and out shot their contents,
all over Maggie’s fine silk sofa from far-off Tashkent.

Richard dissolved into delighted mirth,
for returning like this had really been worth
all the pleas to St Peter at the gates so pearly.
“Please let me harry Henry, not later but early!”

Oh, the deep joy and sweet satisfaction,
to behold the usurper in such helpless dejection.
To see his knees knock, and his face turn all green,
no healthy bright colour to be anywhere seen.

“Don’t worry, Henry, I’m leaving now, can’t stop.
I just hoped to haunt you a while on the hop.
And it’s no good seeking succour from God,
He’s seen through you now, you slippery sod.”

“So no more terror for the nonce, must leave,
but my next manifestation’s on New Year’s Eve,
when all merry Hell will surely be stirred,
by your new best buddy, Richard the Third!”

*Yes, Camembert dates only from the late 18th century,
  but I'm suited to use it in my poem so masterly. 😊

The boar image is from jennaabts.com and the fat red dragon from redbubble.com. All illustrations have been tweaked/compiled by me from known portraits, various photographs and images in the public domain.