I sat on the throne, constipated, and said,

“What can be done with a barren bed?”

No heir comes forth without desire.

Love’s ashes crumble after fire.

So how can I sire an heir?

At length the answer came to me.

This queen commits adultery!

A king, known strong by one and all,

Declares the great ho’s head must fall!

But what will become of Liz?

Our firstborn child, a bastard is,

And such shall be the fate of Liz.

This king, that others think as free,

In fact’s a slave to dynasty.

Then what will become of Anne?

The news arrived by morning late.

She had met with a traitor’s fate.

They’ll never know how much I grieved,

In killing one, whom love deceived.

Now what will become of me?

end

Mr. E. Bates is a poet who likens the quest for love to a foxhunt, in which it is the chase and not the kill that appeals.