‘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…