These poems of "Kings and Queens" seem to be turning into history lessons - and today is no exception.

I am posting below an excerpt from William Shakespeare's play "Richard II".

Firstly though, some comments on the monarch's life - and death:

Richard II (6 January 1367 – 14 February 1400) was the son of Edward the Black Prince, Prince of Wales, and Joan "The Fair Maid of Kent". He was born in Bordeaux and became his father's successor when his elder brother died in infancy.

Richard II is murdered at Pontefract Castle

We join Shakespeare's play at Act III Scene ii

Richard has returned from Ireland and, despite his earlier optimism, he is in despair that Bolingbroke is gaining the support of the country.

He says he is an ordinary man and not divine. He is not immortal.

The Bishop of Carlisle attempts to comfort the king and tells him to shake himself out of his mood of despondency and fight.

KING RICHARD:

For God's sake, let us sit upon the ground
And tell sad stories of the death of kings;
How some have been deposed; some slain in war,
Some haunted by the ghosts they have deposed;
Some poison'd by their wives: some sleeping kill'd;
All murder'd: for within the hollow crown
That rounds the mortal temples of a king
Keeps Death his court and there the antic sits,
Scoffing his state and grinning at his pomp,
Allowing him a breath, a little scene,
To monarchize, be fear'd and kill with looks,
Infusing him with self and vain conceit,
As if this flesh which walls about our life,
Were brass impregnable, and humour'd thus
Comes at the last and with a little pin
Bores through his castle wall, and farewell king!
Cover your heads and mock not flesh and blood
With solemn reverence: throw away respect,
Tradition, form and ceremonious duty,
For you have but mistook me all this while:
I live with bread like you, feel want,
Taste grief, need friends: subjected thus,
How can you say to me, I am a king?

BISHOP OF CARLISLE:

My lord, wise men ne'er sit and wail their woes,
But presently prevent the ways to wail.
To fear the foe, since fear oppresseth strength,
Gives in your weakness strength unto your foe,
And so your follies fight against yourself.
Fear and be slain; no worse can come to fight:
And fight and die is death destroying death;
Where fearing dying pays death servile breath.

William Shakespeare

Henry Frederick Stuart, first child of King James VI of Scotland (later King James I of England) and Anne of Denmark, was born on February 19, 1594, at Stirling Castle in Scotland.

However, these dreams were shattered in November, 1612, when Henry (aged 18) suddenly became ill and died, probably of typhoid fever, though rumours circulated that the Prince was poisoned.

SONNET
Prefixed To His Majesty's Instructions To His dearest Son, Henry The Prince

God gives not kings the style of gods in vain,
For on His throne His sceptre do they sway;
And as their subjects ought them to obey,
So kings should fear and serve their God again.
If then ye would enjoy a happy reign,
Observe the statutes of your Heavenly King,
And from His Law make all your laws to spring,
Since his lieutenant here you should remain:
Reward the just; be steadfast, true and plain:
Repress the proud, maintaining ay the right;
Walk always so as ever in his sight,
Who guards the godly, plaguing the profane,
And so ye shall in princley virtues shine,
Resembling right your mighty King divine.

King James I

Note: The illustration is an engraving in memory of Henry, made nine years after his death.

A eulogistic poem accompanied the engraving, asserting that the prince's soul now resides in Heaven but that he will not be forgotten, "that though dead the world may sound thy name."

Today I am featuring an Old English Queen.

There are still many of them around - particularly in London!

But this one is from ancient times; "Queen Boudica"- known in my schooldays as "Boadicea".

A formidable woman

Boudica (d. 60/61) was a Queen of the Brythonic Celtic Iceni people of Norfolk in Eastern Britain who led a major uprising of the tribes against the occupying forces of the Roman Empire.

Upon the death of her husband Prasutagus, the Romans annexed his kingdom and brutally humiliated Boudica and her daughters, spurring her leadership of the revolt.

In 60 or 61, while governor Gaius Suetonius Paulinus was leading a campaign on the island of Anglesey in north Wales, Boudica led the Iceni, along with the Trinovantes and others, in a rebellion which destroyed the former Trinovantian capital and Roman colonia of Camulodunum (Colchester), and routed the Roman Legio IX Hispana under Quintus Petillius Cerialis.

Boudica's army then burned to the ground the twenty-year-old settlement of Londinium (London) and destroyed Verulamium (St Albans), killing an estimated 70,000-80,000 people.

Roman emperor Nero briefly considered withdrawing Roman forces from the island, but ultimately Boudica was defeated at the Battle of Watling Street by the heavily outnumbered forces of governor Suetonius.

It was in the Victorian era that Boudica's fame took on legendary proportions. Queen Victoria was seen as her "namesake". Victoria's Poet Laureate, Alfred, Lord Tennyson, wrote a poem, "Boadicea", and ships were named after her.

A great bronze statue of Boudica in her war chariot (furnished with scythes after Persian fashion), together with her daughters, was commissioned by Prince Albert and executed by Thomas Thornycroft. It was completed in 1905 and stands next to Westminster Bridge and the Houses of Parliament.

The following poem is by William Cowper.

BOADICEA: AN ODE

[Written 1780. Published 1782.]

WHEN the British warrior queen,
Bleeding from the Roman rods,
Sought, with an indignant mien,
Counsel of her country's gods,

Sage beneath a spreading oak
Sat the Druid, hoary chief;
Ev'ry burning word he spoke
Full of rage, and full of grief.

Princess! if our aged eyes
Weep upon thy matchless wrongs,
'Tis because resentment ties
All the terrors of our tongues.

"Rome shall perish—write that word
In the blood that she has spilt;
Perish, hopeless and abhorr'd,
Deep in ruin as in guilt.

Rome, for empire far renown'd,
Tramples on a thousand states;
Soon her pride shall kiss the ground—
Hark! the Gaul is at her gates!

Other Romans shall arise,
Heedless of a soldier's name;
Sounds, not arms, shall win the prize—
Harmony the path to fame.

Then the progeny that springs
From the forests of our land,
Arm'd with thunder, clad with wings,
Shall a wider world command.

Regions Cæsar never knew
Thy posterity shall sway,
Where his eagles never flew,
None invincible as they.

Such the bard's prophetic words,
Pregnant with celestial fire,
Bending, as he swept the chords
Of his sweet but awful lyre.

She, with all a monarch's pride,
Felt them in her bosom glow;
Rush'd to battle, fought, and died;
Dying, hurl'd them at the foe.

Ruffians, pitiless as proud,
Heav'n awards the vengeance due;
Empire is on us bestow'd,
Shame and ruin wait for you

"Two years after my mother died, my father fell in love with a glamorous blonde Ukrainian divorcee. He was eighty-four and she was thirty-six. She exploded into our lives like a fluffy pink grenade, churning up the water, bringing to the surface a sludge of sloughed-off memories, giving the family ghosts a kick up the backside."

So begins the 2005 novel by Marina Lewycka.

It is one of the books I intended reading, but never got round to.

Yesterday I picked it up from my local Waitrose food-store - for the full price I'm afraid, although it is available from Amazon at 50p. I just wanted to read it as soon as possible.

It has had mixed reviews, mostly ecstatic, but some saying it is only average and not at all funny.

I shall just have to find out for myself!

So far I have only read the first page and this blurb on the back cover:

"Sisters Vera and Nadezhda must put aside a lifetime of feuding to save their émigré engineer father from voluptuous gold-digger Valentina.

But the sisters' campaign to oust Valentina unearths family secrets, uncovers fifty years of Europe's darkest history and sends them back to roots they'd much rather forget . . . "

Let me know if you have read it - and give me your opinion.

You can see a video of the author talking about her book at:

http://www.meettheauthor.co.uk/asp/playwm.asp?ISBN=1103&BW=hb

Today I am returning from the frivolous to "proper" poetry, with this written BY a monarch - Queen Elizabeth I (1533-1603).

Some argue however that the poem was written with Robert Dudley ('Sweet Robin'), the Earl of Leicester in mind.

ON MONSIEUR'S DEPARTURE (1582)

I grieve and dare not show my discontent,
I love and yet am forced to seem to hate,
I do, yet dare not say I ever meant,
I seem stark mute but inwardly do prate.
I am and not, I freeze and yet am burned,
Since from myself another self I turned.
My care is like my shadow in the sun,
Follows me flying, flies when I pursue it,
Stands and lies by me, doth what I have done.
His too familiar care doth make me rue it.
No means I find to rid him from my breast,
Till by the end of things it be supprest.
Some gentler passion slide into my mind,
For I am soft and made of melting snow;
Or be more cruel, love, and so be kind.
Let me or float or sink, be high or low.
Or let me live with some more sweet content,
Or die and so forget what love ere meant.

I am returning to Queen Victoria with this humorous poem by a contemporary American writer,who describes herself thus: "A retired computer nerd, 50 years on this planet. My life is rather austere, no kids - but I have a German Shepherd."

I NEVER LIKED THE STATUE OF QUEEN VICTORIA

I never liked the statue of Queen Victoria.
It was cracked and green with moss,
as something from ‘Alice in Wonderland’.
But Matthew said
it was from Buckingham Palace
and he wouldn’t part with it.
So, when I was in the garden,
I kicked the Queen,
and off came her head.
It rolled down the hill
and rested in the rosebed.
I waited for Matt to ask.
And then I’d say,
Oh yes,
I always did like
Marie Antoinette
in the garden.

Joan Pond

I am continuing my "Royal" poems with this by W.M. Thackeray (1811-1863).

He called out "Good God, what is this?" clasped his page's hand and said, "my boy, this is death."

THE KING OF BRENTFORD

There was a king in Brentford,—of whom no legends tell,
But who, without his glory,—could eat and sleep right well.
His Polly’s cotton nightcap,—it was his crown of state,
He slept of evenings early,—and rose of mornings late.

All in a fine mud palace,—each day he took four meals,
And for a guard of honor,—a dog ran at his heels,
Sometimes, to view his kingdoms,—rode forth this monarch good,
And then a prancing jackass—he royally bestrode.

There were no costly habits—with which this king was curst,
Except (and where’s the harm on’t?)—a somewhat lively thirst;
But people must pay taxes,—and kings must have their sport,
So out of every gallon—His Grace he took a quart.

He pleased the ladies round him,—with manners soft and bland;
With reason good, they named him,—the father of his land.
Each year his mighty armies—marched forth in gallant show;
Their enemies were targets—their bullets they were tow.

He vexed no quiet neighbor,—no useless conquest made,
But by the laws of pleasure,—his peaceful realm he swayed.
And in the years he reigned,—through all this country wide,
There was no cause for weeping,—save when the good man died.

The faithful men of Brentford,—do still their king deplore,
His portrait yet is swinging,—beside an alehouse door.
And topers, tender-hearted,—regard his honest phiz,
And envy times departed,—that knew a reign like his.

W.M. Thackeray

As Victoria subsequently wrote to her eldest daughter, "It is worth being shot at - to see how much one is loved".

ATTEMPTED ASSASSINATION OF THE QUEEN

God prosper long our noble Queen,
And long may she reign!
Maclean he tried to shoot her,
But it was all in vain.

For God He turned the ball aside
Maclean aimed at her head;
And he felt very angry
Because he didn't shoot her dead.

There's a divinity that hedges a king,
And so it does seem,
And my opinion is, it has hedged
Our most gracious Queen.

Maclean must be a madman,
Which is obvious to be seen,
Or else he wouldn't have tried to shoot
Our most beloved Queen.

Victoria is a good Queen,
Which all her subjects know,
And for that God has protected her
From all her deadly foes.

She is noble and generous,
Her subjects must confess;
There hasn't been her equal
Since the days of good Queen Bess.

Long may she be spared to roam
Among the bonnie Highland floral,
And spend many a happy day
In the palace of Balmoral.

Because she is very kind
To the old women there,
And allows them bread, tea, and sugar,
And each one get a share.

And when they know of her coming,
Their hearts feel overjoy'd,
Because, in general, she finds work
For men that's unemploy'd.

And she also gives the gipsies money
While at Balmoral, I've been told,
And, mind ye, seldom silver,
But very often gold.

I hope God will protect her
By night and by day,
At home and abroad,
When she's far away.

May He be as a hedge around her,
As he's been all along,
And let her live and die in peace
Is the end of my song.

William McGonagall

Continuing my "Royal" poetry, I already have a considerable list.

However, it was not until today that I remembered this by our current Poet Laureate, Andrew Motion.

It was written in April 2005, prior to the imminent marriage of Charles and Camilla.

When asked about how he approached the writing of the poem, Andrew Motion was quoted as saying:

"This relationship has, as all the world knows, had all kinds of difficulties and trials and tribulations to deal with.

"That is how I feel about the whole wedding."

SPRING WEDDING

I took your news outdoors, and strolled a while
In silence on my square of garden-ground
Where I could dim the roar of arguments,
Ignore the scandal-flywheel whirring round,

And hear instead the green fuse in the flower
Ignite, the breeze stretch out a shadow-hand
To ruffle blossom on its sticking points,
The blackbirds sing, and singing take their stand.

I took your news outdoors, and found the Spring
Had honored all its promises to start
Disclosing how the principles of earth
Can make a common purpose with the heart.

The heart which slips and sidles like a stream
Weighed down by winter-wreckage near its source --
But given time, and come the clearing rain,
Breaks loose to revel in its proper course.

Andrew Motion

WOW! He clearly states that Diana was an obstacle ("winter-wreckage") to Charles, obstructing the free flow of his life.

Others may have a different opinion.

You can listen to a BBC interview with Andrew Motion and hear him reading the poem if you click on the audio link at the following website:

http://news.bbc.co.uk/1/hi/uk/4427239.stm#

In a few weeks time I shall be presenting an evening of poetry and prose on the subject of "Kings and Queens".

This rivals, or exceeds, the fulsome language of the Poets Laureate.

Great and manifold were the blessings, most dread Sovereign, which Almighty God, the Father of all mercies, bestowed upon us the people of England, when first he sent Your Majesty's Royal Person to rule and reign over us.

For whereas it was the expectation of many who wished not well unto our Sion, that, upon the setting of that bright Occidental Star, Queen Elizabeth, of most happy memory, some thick and palpable clouds of darkness would so have overshadowed this land, that men should have been in doubt which way they were to walk, and that it should hardly be known who was to direct the unsettled State; the appearance of Your Majesty, as of the Sun in his strength, instantly dispelled those supposed and surmised mists, and gave unto all that were well affected exceeding cause of comfort; especially when we beheld the Government established in Your Highness and Your hopeful Seed, by an undoubted Title; and this also accompanied with peace and tranquility at home and abroad.

. . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .

The Lord of heaven and earth bless Your Majesty with many and happy days; that, as his heavenly hand hath enriched Your Highness with many singular and extraordinary graces, so You may be the wonder of the world in this latter age for happiness and true felicity, to the honour of that great God, and the good of his Church, through Jesus Christ our Lord and only Saviour.

Here is a rather sad poem by that tragic American poet Sylvia Plath who, in the cold winter of 1962-63 was living in a small London flat, after her marriage to Ted Hughes had broken down.

On February 11 1963, at the age of 30, she ended her life by putting her head in the gas oven.

MIRROR

I am silver and exact. I have no preconceptions.
Whatever I see I swallow immediately
Just as it is, unmisted by love or dislike.
I am not cruel, only truthful --
The eye of a little god, four-cornered.
Most of the time I meditate on the opposite wall.
It is pink, with speckles. I have looked at it so long
I think it is part of my heart. But it flickers.
Faces and darkness separate us over and over.

Now I am a lake. A woman bends over me,
Searching my reaches for what she really is.
Then she turns to those liars, the candles or the moon.
I see her back, and reflect it faithfully.
She rewards me with tears and an agitation of hands.
I am important to her. She comes and goes.
Each morning it is her face that replaces the darkness.
In me she has drowned a young girl, and in me an old woman
Rises toward her day after day, like a terrible fish.

Sylvia Plath

EMPTY ROOM

The clock disserts on punctuation, syntax.
The clock's voice, thin and dry, asserts, repeats.
The clock insists: a lecturer demonstrating,
Loudly, with finger raised, when the class has gone.

But time flows through the room, light flows through the room
Like someone picking flowers, like someone whistling
Without a tune, like talk in front of a fire,
Like a woman knitting or a child snipping at paper.

A.S.J. Tessimond

Here is his poem "The Slave's Complaint"

Am I sadly cast aside,
On misfortune's rugged tide?
Will the world my pains deride
Forever?

Must I dwell in Slavery's night,
And all pleasure take its flight,
Far beyond my feeble sight,
Forever?

Worst of all, must Hope grow dim,
And withhold her cheering beam?
Rather let me sleep and dream
Forever!

Something still my heart surveys,
Groping through this dreary maze;
Is it Hope?--then burn and blaze
Forever!

Leave me not a wretch confined,
Altogether lame and blind--
Unto gross despair consigned,
Forever!

Heaven! in whom can I confide?
Canst thou not for all provide?
Condescend to be my guide
Forever:

And when this transient life shall end,
Oh, may some kind eternal friend
Bid me from servitude ascend,
Forever!

George Moses Horton

Robert Carver (1938-1988) was an American writer, better known for his short stories than his verse.

However, here is a simple little poem, which you may like - or not!

HAPPINESS

So early it's still almost dark out.
I'm near the window with coffee,
and the usual early morning stuff
that passes for thought.

When I see the boy and his friend
walking up the road
to deliver the newspaper.

They wear caps and sweaters,
and one boy has a bag over his shoulder.
They are so happy
they aren't saying anything, these boys.

I think if they could, they would take
each other's arm.
It's early in the morning,
and they are doing this thing together.

They come on, slowly.
The sky is taking on light,
though the moon still hangs pale over the water.

Such beauty that for a minute
death and ambition, even love,
doesn't enter into this.

Happiness. It comes on
unexpectedly. And goes beyond, really,
any early morning talk about it.

Raymond Carver

Following yesterday's angry anti-war poem by Shelley, I have today chosen something softer and more romantic - perhaps more typical of how he is generally perceived.

Music, when soft voices die,
Vibrates in the memory --
Odours, when sweet violets sicken,
Live within the sense they quicken.

Rose leaves, when the rose is dead,
Are heaped for the beloved's bed;
And so thy thoughts, when thou art gone,
Love itself shall slumber on.

Percy Bysshe Shelley

Note: Shelley died when he was only 29. He was drowned at sea off the coast of Italy and his body was washed ashore near Viareggio.

However, there is a great deal of poetic licence, as he was in fact partly clothed - and his body was beginning to decompose.

Percy Bysshe Shelley is typically seen as the quintessential English romantic poet, all clouds and skylarks.

This is an extract from "Poetical Essay", a diatribe against war, which was published anonymously as a pamphlet in 1811 and subsequently lost for almost 200 years.

“Millions to fight compell’d, to fight or die
In mangled heaps on War’s red altar lie...
When the legal murders swell the lists of pride;
When glory’s views the titled idiot guide
It is the ‘cold advisers of yet colder kings’
Who have ‘the power to breathe o’er all the world
The infectious blast of death...."

P.B. Shelley

Today's poem is perhaps less well known.

WHEN EARTH'S LAST PICTURE IS PAINTED

When Earth's last picture is painted and the tubes are twisted and dried,
When the oldest colours have faded, and the youngest critic has died,
We shall rest, and, faith, we shall need it -- lie down for an aeon or two,
Till the Master of All Good Workmen shall put us to work anew.
And those that were good shall be happy; they shall sit in a golden chair;
They shall splash at a ten-league canvas with brushes of comets' hair.
They shall find real saints to draw from -- Magdalene, Peter, and Paul;
They shall work for an age at a sitting and never be tired at all!

And only The Master shall praise us, and only The Master shall blame;
And no one shall work for money, and no one shall work for fame,
But each for the joy of the working, and each, in his separate star,
Shall draw the Thing as he sees It for the God of Things as They are!

Rudyard Kipling

MESSY ROOM

Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
His underwear is hanging on the lamp.
His raincoat is there in the overstuffed chair,
And the chair is becoming quite mucky and damp.
His workbook is wedged in the window,
His sweater's been thrown on the floor.
His scarf and one ski are beneath the TV,
And his pants have been carelessly hung on the door.
His books are all jammed in the closet,
His vest has been left in the hall.
A lizard named Ed is asleep in his bed,
And his smelly old sock has been stuck to the wall.
Whosever room this is should be ashamed!
Donald or Robert or Willie or--
Huh? You say it's mine? Oh, dear,
I knew it looked familiar!

Shel Silverstein

THE AFFLICTED

Softly every night they come
To the picture show,
That old couple, deaf and dumb
In the second row;
Wistful watching, hand in hand,
Proud they understand.

Shut-ins from the world away,
All in all to each;
Knowing utter joy as they
Read the lips of speech . . .
Would, I wonder, I be glum
Were I deaf and dumb?

Were I quieted away,
Far from din and shock?
Were I spared the need to say
Silly things in talk?
Utter hush I would not mind . . .
Happy they!—I’m blind.

Robert Service

So, I decided to give the old man equal time. OK, here we go...

Yeah, I left home when the kid was three
And it sure felt good to be fancy free
Though I knew it wasn't quite the the fatherly thing to do
But that kid kept screaming and throwing up
And pissing in his pants till I had enough
So just for revenge I went and named him Sue
Yeah!

It was Gatlinburg in mid July
I was gettin drunk but gettin by
Gettin old and going from bad to worse

When through the door with an awful scream
Comes the ugliest queen I've ever seen
He says, "My name is Sue, how do you do?"
Then he hits me with his purse

Now this ain't the way he tells the tell
But he scratched my face with his fingernails
And Then he bit my thumb
And kicked me with his high heel shoe

So I hit him in the nose and he started to cry
And he threw some perfume in my eye
And it sure ain't easy fightin an old boy named Sue

So I hit him in the head with a cane back chair
And he screamed, "Hey dad, you mussed my hair!"
And he hit me in the navel and knocked out a piece of my lint

He was spittin blood, I was spittin teeth
And we crashed through the wall and out into the street
Kickin and gouging in the mud and the blood and the creme de menthe

Then out of his garter he pulls a gun
I'm about to get shot by my very own son
He's screaming about Sigmund Freud and looking grim - woo
So I though fast and I told him some stuff
How I named him Sue just to make him tough
And I guess he bought it cause now I'm living with him

Yea he cooks and sews and cleans up the place
He cuts my hair and shaves my face
And irons my shirts better than a daughter could do
And on the nights that I can't score
Well, I can't tell you any more
But it sure is a joy to have a boy named Sue
Yeah a son is fun but it's a joy to have a boy named Sue!

Shel Silverstein

I found today's poem in an anthology of verse and my US pal then reminded me that it was a classic hit by country singer Johnny Cash.

A BOY NAMED SUE

Well, my daddy left home when I was three,
and he didn't leave much to Ma and me,
just this old guitar and a bottle of booze.
Now I don't blame him because he run and hid,
but the meanest thing that he ever did was
before he left he went and named me Sue.

Well, he must have thought it was quite a joke,
and it got lots of laughs from a lot of folks,
it seems I had to fight my whole life through.
Some gal would giggle and I'd get red
and some guy would laugh and I'd bust his head,
I tell you, life ain't easy for a boy named Sue.

Well, I grew up quick and I grew up mean.
My fist got hard and my wits got keen.
Roamed from town to town to hide my shame,
but I made me a vow to the moon and the stars,
I'd search the honky tonks and bars and kill
that man that gave me that awful name.

But it was Gatlinburg in mid July and I had
just hit town and my throat was dry.
I'd thought i'd stop and have myself a brew.
At an old saloon in a street of mud
and at a table dealing stud sat the dirty,
mangy dog that named me Sue.

Well, I knew that snake was my own sweet dad
from a worn-out picture that my mother had
and I knew the scar on his cheek and his evil eye.
He was big and bent and gray and old
and I looked at him and my blood ran cold,
and I said, "My name is Sue. How do you do?
Now you're gonna die." Yeah, that's what I told him.

Well, I hit him right between the eyes and he went down
but to my surprise he came up with a knife
and cut off a piece of my ear. But I busted a chair
right across his teeth. And we crashed through
the wall and into the street kicking and a-gouging
in the mud and the blood and the beer.

I tell you I've fought tougher men but I really can't remember when.
He kicked like a mule and bit like a crocodile.
I heard him laughin' and then I heard him cussin',
he went for his gun and I pulled mine first.
He stood there looking at me and I saw him smile.

And he said, "Son, this world is rough and if
a man's gonna make it, he's gotta be tough
and I knew I wouldn't be there to help you along.
So I gave you that name and I said 'Goodbye'.
I knew you'd have to get tough or die. And it's
that name that helped to make you strong."

Yeah, he said, "Now you have just fought one
helluva fight, and I know you hate me and you've
got the right to kill me now and I wouldn't blame you
if you do. But you ought to thank me
before I die for the gravel in your guts and the spit
in your eye because I'm the nut that named you Sue."
Yeah, what could I do? What could I do?

I got all choked up and I threw down my gun,
called him pa and he called me a son,
and I came away with a different point of view
and I think about him now and then.
Every time I tried, every time I win and if I
ever have a son I think I am gonna name him
Bill or George - anything but Sue.

Shel Silverstein

(Tomorrow - the sequel, "The Father Of A Boy Named Sue"

Here in the UK we have been spoilt over the last few weeks by unseasonably warm weather.

SONNET 5

Those hours, that with gentle work did frame
The lovely gaze where every eye doth dwell,
Will play the tyrants to the very same
And that unfair which fairly doth excel:
For never-resting time leads summer on
To hideous winter and confounds him there;
Sap cheque'd with frost and lusty leaves quite gone,
Beauty o'ersnow'd and bareness every where:
Then, were not summer's distillation left,
A liquid prisoner pent in walls of glass,
Beauty's effect with beauty were bereft,
Nor it nor no remembrance what it was:
But flowers distill'd though they with winter meet,
Leese but their show; their substance still lives sweet.

Shakespeare