Classic Poem

ENGLAND .

The Tower looms grim, see of your reign the fruit,
Vile king! an hapless folk is doomed to flame,
You hear the oak pyres burn, the royal name
Gains by such needless anguish no repute.

Bigoted fool, seed of a bigot root,
Do you not hear the tortured victims claim
Another throne in hell for you, of shame
Fit for your carrion! soulless, sceptered brute?

You cared but little for a dead man's bones.
Meseems, through history's mists, they gave no pain,
But should you deem your butcher prayer atones
For all the slaughter of your impious reign,
Remember, King, pale Howard's dying groans;
Think of the axe that smote poor Ann Boleyn.