Classic Poem

G OD'S pity on poor kings,
—They know no gentle rest;
The North and South cry out,
—Cries come from East and West—
“Come, open this new Dock,
—Building, Bazaar or Fair.”
Lord, what a wretched life
—Such men must bear.

They're followed, watched and spied,
—No liberty they know;
Some eye will watch them still,
—No matter where they go.
When in green lanes I muse,
—Alone, and hear birds sing,
God's pity then, say I,
—On some poor king.