A Waking Of Albion

Sewed through my chest,
the blade of liquid kings
set to weave a tabard from
Twitter's peasant envy.

This is Saxons' cackle "By God!
The Normans gave us something!"
the crook-tooths at last revolting
sans horse-crushed, hanged, shot.

A clay wind blows a choir
of wool to my ears,
a song of sallow sheep
grinding Welsh moss into meat,

as pulled from its altar, with Caliburn's prick
I graffiti my arm with a swastika.

© Mark Sheeky. Permission is required for reproduction.