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King George III Declares War

from Legends of Liberty, Volume 2

Note: The British have won a pyrrhic victory at Bunker Hill. King
George, who has been showing some erratic personality quirks
since being possessed by a roach (the Devil), heads to Parliament.
Enlisting the aid of Col. Banastre Tarleton, George hopes to steer
the debate on how to deal with the American colonies.

One day as George the Third rode in his coach,
It started to transform beneath his feet.
“What villainy is this?” His tenant roach:
Just tweaking the design—stay in your seat.
Palm branches turned to raven feathers, jaws
Of lions widened, changed to monstrous mammals;
The cherubs, demons heeding loveless laws;
While Grecian gods upon the painted panels
Grew into those of fallen Babylon.
The once-gold carriage, black as Death, was Sin’s own spawn.

Four pairs of horses merged, female and male,
Swelling in such a way to castrate, spay
Them. Thus unsexed and double-sized, their pale,
Coats darkened; manes and tails, cafe-au-lait,
Were boiled in blood and ran in scarlet streams.
Their trotting quickened to a flying gallop.
Said George: “My Hanoverians! My Creams!”
The bug: Be firm. Kings shouldn’t ride like trollops.
The royal houses glimpsed, through an eclipse,
The royal horses of their lord’s apocalypse.

The rays on Britain’s shore, as George came drag
-ging thunderstorms behind, were choked by clouds,
Not shining on a docking ship: men strag
-gling down to shoulder-bump through careless crowds—
Survivors fresh from Bunker Hill—legs hang
-ing off of stretchers faltering in rain,
Wafting the stench of pestilence; arms dang
-ling, dressed by widows mourning soldiers slain—
And with them, Margaret Gage! Shaking with chills,
Wrapped in a shawl, she vanished into rolling hills.

George disembarked at Parliament, where Tarle-
ton’s plume stood rigid as he leaned against
A smiling statue, waiting with a snarl.
“Ah, Colonel—welcome. The situation’s tense:
I’ll need your special methods of persuasion.”
(He nodded.) Climbing up the marble-stepped
Palace, they entered to impress invasion
Plans to the peers in crimson robes. George stooped
To sit in his high chair as Edmund Burke
Recited epic poems (now-forgotten works).

Burke warned of “civill Warres, tumultuous Broyles”
(so quoting from the Lancaster and York
of Samuel Daniel). Men can’t dine through brawls:
“Let shame and indignation urge your forks,”
He said, (so paraphrasing Thomas May
As gibbous Edward Gibbon took a bite
Of pork while scribbling notes to some essay
On Roman power waning from its height).
Misquoting Cowley’s Civil War, Burke likens
The rage of English ships to waves of lesser Lucans:

“A borrowed line, like England’s burrowed ore
And iron, cannot match the natural
Resources of America—it’s shores
Are pure, original—no actual
Invasion force could chop those sacred groves
Like Caesar’s axes did Massilia.
At dawn, their forests glow like emerald troves.
Let’s spare this bout of hemophilia
And, as the mother nation, raise a son
Of soil unbloodied—giving up what can’t be won.”

Ed Gibbon, swallowing, pork-bellied, stood:
“Sublime in rhetoric, as always, Burke!”
(Enunciating with his fork) “But could
Militia trained to fight behind tree bark
Ever defeat an army in the field?”
(Patting some purple patches on his pants)
“The answer’s no! At Bunker Hill, they failed.”
Not much like Commodus, who threw a lance
In the Colosseum like a gladiator,
The scholar lobbed his fork. (It poked a legislator.)

Don’t look so bored (the bug). Make a decree.
The King: “Of war?” Yes—time for you to croon.
The cockroach turned into a buzzing bee
And built a nest of honey in his crown
That trickled down his brainstem, out his tongue.
His oratory put Demosthenes
To shame, although four hundred words were strung
In sentences with just eight verbs: low keys
Of “fight” and “die” (his voice seemed deeper, thick).
His mouth was foaming like the sea; mad rhetoric

Made Aristotle seem a simpleton:
The synaleph abridged each simile and
Pun and zeugm and polysyndeton.
His simple rolling speech was Sisypheaned.
While pleonasms lengthened dignity,
Anastrophes pedantical were dangled.
Enallage flung the royal pronoun “We”
With figurings unknown to man or angel,
And shadowed speech cast cognitive eclipses,
Bemiduddling each phrase with prosthepenthellipses.

None understood him. All were hypnotized.
The dangers of omission became clear
As Parliament parsed words: “uncivilized,”
“A desperate conspiracy,” “base fear,”
“An independent empire,” and “revolt.”
Burke stood: “Um, is His Majesty declaring
War?” Then the King recovered with a jolt.
“Wha-what? Can someone crack a window?” (Staring.)
“I’m burning up.” Outside, the landscape withered
In Autumn’s chill as members of the Commons shivered.

Two men arrived, then—delegates, express
From Philadelphia! Holding a bunch
Of printed sheets. They bowed and said, “God bless
You, Sire.” George read the top: An ‘Olive Branch
Petition.’ Interesting. A plea for peace?
Destroy it. It’s a trick. “I don’t think so,”
Thought George. Arrest them, Satan said. They’ll fleece
Your Grace with lies. Then, moving to and fro,
Dis seized the royal limbic system, threw
The royal fingers forth, and tore the plea in two,

Then, gesturing to Tarleton: “Seize these men.”
Tarle beat them both and wrangled them in chains.
A voice rose from the House of Commons: “When
Did our King turn into a tyrant?” Veins
Popped in the royal forehead, and an arm
Pointed. The Colonel marched towards the dissenter
And ran a speckled saber through his warm
Belly. “Don’t think of me as a tormenter—
I couldn’t bear it,” Evil George replied.
Then Good George yanked his arm down. “No—stuh-stop!” He cried.

.

Foreign Aid Arrives

As Parliament stood cowering, a new
Face entered—scarred and burned, the left eye gone
(No patch to cover it). The good eye drew
In night—a bullet hole—and yet it shone,
Glassy, like disinterred obsidian.
Then Evil George regained control. To all:
“Ah, meet my friend! He’s no quotidian
Soldier—our valued ally, Johann Rahl!
The Hessian’s leader, my new standard bearer.”
The black eye, roving through the chamber, triggered terror.

Rahl was a child-soldier, it was said—
The bastard of a Prussian princess who
Had stuffed the poor babe in a cannon’s head
Upon a battlefield (hoping its crew
Would blast the evidence of her love-crime
To smithereens). In that infernal womb
Of war, the babe absorbed the ash and grime
Into his bones. He breathed in powder fumes,
Inheriting congenital black lung.
His mind and soul were scarred—a child never young.

Then, just before the cannon fired: “Wait!”
The crew discovered the young babe and took
Him to their general, who gazed down straight
Into that darkling eye with a curious look:
A spark had made it glow, blinding the other.
The old commander, charmed, upreared the boy
Within his family of martial brothers.
The saddle was his cradle, arms his toys.
At nine, he won a duel. At twelve, a battle.
When babes are born in cannons, death becomes their rattle.

The War of Austrian Succession taught
The creed of taking lands and thrones for free.
Mid Jacobites, Rahl coped with loss—he shot
Retreating allies as they turned to flee.
The French and Indian War instilled the quirk
Of reveling in frontier killing sprees.
From Catherine the Great, he learned that Turks
Bled like the rest, and empires paid high fees.
The slaughtered ghosts of every continent
Scavenged his shipwrecked heart, an isle of discontent.

George stood behind the Hessian warrior,
Kneading his shoulders: “Say Hello! Our freund
Is here to solve our problems—worriers
Need not speak up. And with his forces joined
To ours, we’ll be victorious!” The Hessian
Just stared ahead, with Tarleton—silent, scary—
Upon the lords and commoners in session.
“Speaking of problems—where’s my Secretary
Of State?” The politicians parted. “There!”
All eyes were fixed upon a frozen, shaking chair.

“Lord Dartmouth!” said the King. “You’ve been remiss
In your attention to our plight.” Dart chimed:
“A small rebellion, sir—no more!” — “Is this
Lord North’s opinion?” George inquired. The Prime
Minister, sitting silent up in front,
Squinted his eyes and puffed his bloated cheeks—
A trumpeter gone blind: “This new affront
Makes it a foreign war. A man who speaks
Against this fact, my liege, should be retired.”
“Wise choice. Lord Dartmouth,” said His Majesty, “—you’re fired!”

The Hessian ogre seized the trembling lord
And, pulling both his elbows, split him wide
Open—a valley with a red fjord.
His victim’s frame was doubled, side by side,
Just as a mum gives birth to bloody twins,
Or as a falcon with its beak will fish
For flesh by separating scales and fins,
Or hawks dig talons in a flailing dish.
Lord North explored his waistcoat for some scotch,
But Tarleton held him firm, and bending, whispered: “Watch.”

Then Rahl, discarding lonely limbs bereft
Of all attachment, set his roving eye
Upon the chamber—huddling without rift
(Fear marries factions)—landing on a shy
Gent sitting in the back. Striding, he picked
The powdered Whig up by his fluffy collar
And plopped him on a high seat. The man peeked
With one eye open—not a peep or holler.
He winced, a mouse anticipating pain.
“Our newest Secretary! State your name.” — “Germain.”

(Sporadic clapping.) “Lord Germain—just where
Does your allegiance lie?” — (Voice wobbly) “Tories.”
The King said, “Good. And your position?” — “War.”
“I know you won’t neglect my territories,
Unlike your predecessor.” — “No sir, never.”
The Hessian pressed a bloody handkerchief
Upon Germain’s perspiring brow. “You’re clever.”
So full of good ideas.” Tarleton whiffed
A fresh cigar and stuffed the smoking end
Between Germain’s thin purple lips. “You heard my friend,”

The King said as his Secretary coughed.
“We are at war! Prepare the ships! Enough
For thirty thousand men.” Germain, then (soft):
“Um yes, about that…times, you know, are tough,
And…” (His cigar and handkerchief were taken.)
The King: “What are you saying?” (Balling fists.)
—“Production’s lagging. Lest I am mistaken,
No navy of that magnitude exists.”
George stared. Rahl grabbed Germain’s slim neck (to break it).
His Highness nixed the violence. “Then we’ll have to make it.”

.

.

Andrew Benson Brown has had poems and reviews published in a few journals. His epic-in-progress, Legends of Liberty, will chronicle the major events of the American Revolution if he lives to complete it. Though he writes history articles for American Essence magazine, he lists his primary occupation on official forms as ‘poet.’ He is, in other words, a vagabond.

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17 Responses

  1. Roy Eugene Peterson

    My words cannot express the creativity, detail, wordsmithing, elevated vocabulary, alliterations, enjambment of words or historical setting and meaning of such a fantastic piece of classical poetry. You have set the standard at an impossibly high mark for the rest of poor plodding poets. To pick a favorite line would be to copy the entire poem.

    Reply
    • James Sale

      Quite right Roy – the entertainment and wizardry just doesn’t let up. From this extract I just love the spoof on rhetorical terms. And yet exceeding that, my delight on reading this:
      George stood behind the Hessian warrior,
      Kneading his shoulders: “Say Hello! Our freund

      The brilliant double sense of ‘kneading/needing’ and the ominous hello from our ‘freund’! Marvellous! I have done an 1800 word review of this book for The Epoch Times, which others may wish to see: https://www.theepochtimes.com/bright/legends-of-liberty-2-a-fabulous-sequel-5613665 Benson Brown is definitely an important American poet!

      Reply
      • ABB

        I am indebted to you for your generous and learned review, James. The stanza on rhetoric was the first part of the chapter I wrote. Madness is a good excuse for zany language.

    • ABB

      Much thanks for enumerating the aspects of my hard work, Roy. The standards are here for all to aspire to, and I’m still trying to climb higher myself.

      Reply
  2. Susan Jarvis Bryant

    What an absolute treat! Every line of these skillfully crafted, breathtaking stanzas sings to me in sumptuous language, scintillating imagery, and superlative wordplay that fires my imagination and inspires me to work harder at my own poetry. I echo Roy in how tough it is to pick out a favorite line, but I must mention this one as it made me grin: “Striding, he picked / The powdered Whig up by his fluffy collar /And plopped him on a high seat.” – “powdered Whig” how clever! Andrew – thank you!

    Reply
    • ABB

      Praise for one’s wordsmithery from a master wordsmith, Susan, is surely the best sort of vindication.

      Reply
  3. Sally Cook

    Hi, ABB =

    Monumental poeme ! At first I thought it was too long, but reconsidered, as the gravity of the subject seems to require it. In any case, you are a remarkable poet ! As you know, Bunker Hill is a subject close to my heart… Lets see more.

    Reply
    • Daniel Kemper

      I have these poor, staccato thoughts. Much enjoyed. Much admired.

      Detail like an acid trip was compelling
      spay/cafe-au-lait — Some fresh and clever rhyme (just to note one here)
      rhymes broken over EoL. I like this, never sure how to punctuate.
      Ah, we’ve got a Spencerian thing going on here.
      Sweet irony with Gibbon writing The Fall at dinner over revolutions.
      Dialogue seems to be steadily more natural, realistic, and confident.
      Love the well-disciplined asides; great tales, great balance and return

      more later I think

      Reply
      • ABB

        Daniel,
        Thanks for your observations. Yes, dialogue is less clunky than in early chapters, I think. The Gibbon irony was to good to omit. Later he himself draws implicit parallels between Rome and modern-day Britain when he discusses Roman interactions with the ancient Britons. That for a future chapter.

    • ABB

      Sally, your initial reaction about this being too long is a common one, I imagine. I was originally just going to submit a 60-line sequence featuring the Hessian Rahl, but decided it didn’t make a lot of sense out of context. For future excerpts, I do have a few shorter ones to submit.

      Reply
  5. Brian A. Yapko

    Andrew, I’ve read through your excerpt from Legends of Liberty and I think it’s absolutely brilliant. I was hoping for some time to offer a meatier comment but have run out of time in preparation for a procedure. If I can, maybe more anon. In the meantime, I wanted to mention how skillfully you straddle the tightrope between serious history and sly humor — you inhabit the intersection between Longfellow and Twain. Your rhymes are unexpected, entertaining and extremely clever. I too love that “freund/joined” rhyme, the “powdered Whig” and several others bon mots. Fantastic work which instructs, entertains and even gets the pulse going a little faster. It doesn’t get better than that! And you make me want to rewatch “The Madness of King George.”

    Reply
    • ABB

      Brian,
      I will have to do without your deep analysis this time. But thanks for commenting and appreciating. It’s been years since I’ve seen the Madness of King George and I may need to rewatch it, if only so I can insert a sly reference about Nigel Hawthorne acting skills.

      Reply
  6. Margaret Coats

    Andrew, this is history in the style of Hieronymus Bosch–creepy, disgusting, enchanting. You and your language choices bring out the esoteric in events, and indeed the scary occult ever lurking in those that tend toward evil. Underlying all this is a keen examination of psychology in characters well known and less known and in some that are perhaps invented. To do all this, you need to make boldly interpretive decisions that may be questioned or disbelieved. The fictive account definitely appeals to certain tastes, and stretches most boundaries of mock epic. However, in doing so, it recalls the more outlandish scenes of violence from classic epic. And these particular scenes involve only governmental intervention and military preparation, rather than actual battle!

    Reply
    • ABB

      You are right that fictionalizing is for certain tastes, and departing from the facts is an inevitable criticism in this case. I would point out that one pitfall of historical epics, however, is that in their obligation to stick to the facts, they are more boring than epics rooted in mythology and religion, which are expected to employ supernatural conceits. I think this is one reason why epics rooted in history are considered second-rate compared with the likes of Homer, Virgil, Dante, and Milton (though the boundary between myth and history is blurry with the ancients). I think Tasso was right to romanticize the First Crusade and add in supernatural details, although he did it in the direction of super-seriousness. I take the opposite track.

      Reply
  7. Joseph S. Salemi

    This is truly wild and freaky. One problem about writing a national epic is that the author is frequently hamstrung by a requisite patriotism, which requires him to treat everything with a mind-numbing seriousness. As a result, the epic becomes preachy and sanctimonious.

    That’s certainly not the case here! ABB brings in a manic comedy, sort of like Svengoolie when he hosts forgotten B horror films. A possessed King George comes across as far more frightening here than he ever was in real life. And the Hessian baby, born from a cannon’s muzzle, or the MP run through with a saber — what imagery!

    Reply
    • ABB

      So many writers have undertaken epics from patriotic sentiments, without the requisite literary training to pull it off. I have even encountered several cringeworthy contemporary examples on Amazon.

      One of the only things known about Johann Rahl’s early life is that he was a child soldier. Since he doesn’t enter the historical record until a teenager, who can say whether he wasn’t born in a cannon? The several portraits I found of him only show one-half of his face. So I got to thinking: ‘maybe his other eye resembled a bullet-hole?’

      Reply

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