Three solemn kings rode in last night,
Hair windswept and dirty with dust,
They crept along the harbour, watching
Dilapidated bars for a sign of some delicacy.
Seymour wept into his coat,
As the stars blinked above his head,
The cool wind his only blanket,
The rain outside his only calm.
What went wrong with these three men,
Paul refused the throne,
His vehemence swift like an axe,
That blade has no rebuke.
And James lost the run of himself one night,
With the Mayor’s wife,
His former friend and confidant,
Still searching now, far and wide.
Blame them not,
Give them peace,
Just like the sunrise does,
To gain entrance to that show,
Their poverty, is the only fee.