Death, Where is thy Sting?

Amid a black and crawling mess
Of headlines in the mourning Press,
Our grief by Church and State endorsed
And by the truncheon well enforced,
Ten days we mourned that constancy
Which, by not dying, made us free.

Our duty done, with hush profound,
The leftovers plonked in the ground,
Look forward now to day more fair
With jewelled hat plonked on the heir,
Amid a crawling, crowing mess
Of headlines in rejoicing Press.

Fern Irreal