Frederick Poem by Morgan Michaels
Frederick
Poor Frederick
astride his white charger, quite
a figure, once, on the battlefield,
Now grown old
he mopes about the palace
in slippers, if he can find them,
barefoot, if he can't,
whining about the dust
harassing the staff.
Still, he bristles
at the sight of braid, red and blue-gold.
and, a shako, of course;
I'd leave the palace, tout suite,
but he is, after all, king.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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4/16/2024 5:38:56 PM # 1.0.0.1119
