Morgan Michaels

Frederick - Poem by Morgan Michaels

Poor Frederick
astraddle 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,
complaining 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 place, forthwith,
but he is, after all, king.

Topic(s) of this poem: love

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Poem Submitted: Thursday, August 23, 2012

Poem Edited: Monday, October 12, 2015

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