The King’s Fool to His Lady
By Patrick Murtha
O lady of my laughter, the feast is killed with frost.
My king grows prim and scowls, his lords grow cold and cross.
The mirth of ancient ages is choked up in the child
Who chortled at the Mermaid when all the world was wild.
I heard primeval laughter, before both day or night,
Darting o’er the waters, echoing God’s delight;
I heard a maiden’s rapture, her merriment in May—
They’ve dwindled in the darkness, they’ve faded far away.
For Mayhem’s fools have mellowed. Comedian and the clown
Have set aside their laughter and laid their wisdom down.
Their rapier tongues are blunted; their riddles only cloak
A hollow hint of humor—their jests are just a joke.
The humor’s hushed with honors, with trophies, and with rings;
The playwright, like a puppet, is parroting the kings.
Poor Blondel longs for Richard, and Patch’s wit is dull;
And Touchstone’s just a statue, and Yorick’s but a skull.
But though my brother-jesters lie wit-dead like a tomb,
I daily tease my monarch to teach him of his doom;
With barbs of truths in riddles and stabbing words that sting,
I dare, my dear, to be a conscience to the king.
I leaned my motley crest upon my monarch’s chair:
“What ass,” our ruler roared, “profanes my lion’s lair?”
“In sooth, my portly sire,” brayed I with glummish glee,
“This ass has berthed his bells where a noble brute should be.”
“And, fool,” my king retorted, “where strays this regal beast?”
“Too long,” I larked, “in chambers shadowed from the east,
“And there a falcon’s aerie is twined with toxic thorns;
“Her plumage shrouds her talons, so Satan masks his horns.”
And lest his mulish mind couldn’t chew this cryptic word,
I rounded out my riddle, and said squarely to my lord:
“A low-down lust lampoons what a lofty love had been;
“You’ve legalized your lover, you court her as your queen.”
My love, my Liege grew graver and overcast his sky.
He thundered with a mad-mouth and lightninged from his eye.
But when his tantrum tempered, he warned me, staring stern:
“Beware, my foolish jester, what king and bridge you burn.”
“My Lord, your gentle caution, I’ll muse within my mind.
When London’s bridge is blazing, I’ll leave my king behind.
I bellow ‘bout the fire; you fire for the belle.
I’ll rest my heels in heaven; you’ll roast a heel in hell.”
And on and on I jested, and every jest a truth;
And on and on he rumbled, and every crack uncouth.
His humor’s growing graceless; he banters like a bawd.
For like the mutinous monk, he’s lost the wit of God.
And like the mutinous monk, he waters down his wine,
Grows gloomy with the sermons of a sober-lipped divine.
And like the duke in Deutschland, he set himself as king,
Not only of his kingdom but God and everything.
You see, my Love of Laughter, so muddled is the earth.
The realm is fat with mayhem but barren in its mirth.
And vice is for a giggle, and virtue’s but a gag;
And piety is parodied, debauchery’s a brag.
The light has gone from London, for Camelot is cold:
Our globe has lost her gaiety. The lion’s growing old.
But ‘til our Merry England is filled with glad-full things,
I’ll arm myself with humor, and hurl my jests at kings.
