I thought it was
a mouse that scraped
Upon the bedroom
door,
A creak of aged
timber,
A groaning of
the floor.
Half asleep I
turned my head,
Expecting not a
thing,
Least of all the
spirit
Of a dead, beheaded
king.
‘Oh, Lord!’ I
cried in fear.
‘Excuse me,’ he
calmly said.
‘I wish to know,
young man,
Why you sleep
inside my bed?’
‘Your Majesty,’
I stuttered,
A quiver in my
spine,
‘I hate to
disagree,
But the bed I’m
in is mine.’
‘Outrageous!’
yelled the monarch,
‘I’ve slept here
all my life!
And if you don’t
believe me,
I suggest you
ask my wife!’
Now two ghosts
stood before me,
Shimmering in
the gloom.
A headless king,
his phantom queen,
And me inside in
my room.
‘I’m sorry I
have to ask,’
I voiced with no
little dread.
‘But is there
any chance
That you don’t
that know you’re dead?
I’m not quite
sure you’re clear,
You may have
come to harm.
You fail to have
yet observed
That your head
is under your arm.’
‘Dead?’ cried
the king. ‘How absurd!
I’m merely out
of town.
No one
would dare to slice off the head
Of the man that
wore the crown!’
The queen then
softly pronounced,
‘I’m sorry, my
dear, to state,
The young boy in
bed is quite right,
They did indeed
cleave your pate.’
The king became
awfully quiet,
A very bad sign
for sure.
‘I’m
disappointed,’ he groaned,
‘You could have
told me before.
To roam around
as I have,
My head adhered
to my side,
Makes me a right
royal fool!
It’s just as
well that I died.’
Then slowly they
faded away,
Never again to
be seen.
But sometimes I
think I can hear
The headless
king and his queen.
