We hardly saw his noble, profiled
Eager young spendthrifts, we neither knew nor cared
That history and monarchy were in our hands.
We gave them up for sweets and lemonade.
His face is weathered now; he is alone
In exile, far from his subjects or his throne,
Still impassive, though perhaps he dreams
Of decimal republics overthrown.
If you have any comments on this poem, David Whippman would be pleased to hear from you.