THE REGAL WRAITH

 

I thought it was a mouse that scraped

Upon the bedroom door,

A creak of aged timber,

A groaning of the floor.

 

Half asleep I turned my head,

Expecting not a thing,

Least of all the spirit

Of a dead, beheaded king.

 

‘Lord above!’ I cried in fear.

‘Pardon me!’ he said.

‘I wish to know, young man,

Why you sleep inside my bed?’

 

‘Your Majesty!’ I stuttered,

A quiver in my spine,

‘I hate to disagree with nobility,

But the bed I’m in is mine.’

 

‘Outrageous!’ yelled the monarch,

‘I’ve slept here all my life!

And if you don’t believe me,

I suggest you ask my wife!’

 

Now two ghosts stood before me,

Shimmering in the gloom.

A headless king, his phantom queen,

And me inside in my room.

 

‘I’m sorry I have to ask,’

I voiced with no little dread.

‘But is there just the tiniest chance

That you don’t know you’re dead?

 

I’m not quite sure you’re clear,

You may have come to some harm.

You fail to have yet observed,

That your head is under your arm.’

 

‘Dead?’ cried the king. ‘How absurd!

I’m merely out of town.

No one would slice off the head

Of the man who wore the crown!’

 

The queen then softly pronounced,

‘I’m sorry, my dear, to state,

The young boy in bed is quite right,

They did indeed cleave your pate.’

 

The king became awfully quiet,

A very bad sign for sure.

‘I’m so disappointed,’ he groaned,

‘You could have told me before.

 

To roam around as I have,

My head adhered to my side,

Makes me a right royal fool!

It’s just as well that I died.’

 

Then slowly they faded away,

Never again to be seen.

But sometimes I think I can hear

The headless king and his queen