A War of Roses

A War of Roses

A war! A war! Red roses!
A war! A war! White roses!

A king, a prince, a tower from whence two poor brothers would never return.
Cocooned safely in Westminister Abbey, royal child, nay, bastard, emerge!
Sent far away, in castle to stay, prison rebirth on death of The Third.
Fell down, broken crown, beat around a bush.
Dear scrivener, employ what you’ve learned.

In war! At war! Red roses!
In war! At war! White roses!

A battle king with shrewd priorities assuming throne before he proposes.
A queen of hearts in a house of cards being played in a war of roses.
An olive branch giving peace a chance, a card played, but at least not folded.
When mothers conspire war can be over.
This is something understood when you’re older.

Oh war! End war! Red roses!
Oh war! End war! White roses!

Remember Love Day?
And when we held hands?
And how two houses now have two doors?

Gracious, but poor, though purse can’t afford. Children sing a song of sixpence.
Arthur, first born, the heir to the throne, is no longer. This doesn’t make sense.
Hist’ry we’ll be. The future is myst’ry. Proceed with the best of intent.
The lost brothers are echoed by poseurs.
Enough of the grief! Oh, the trials and troubles!

No war! No war! Red roses!
No war! No war! White roses!

Father, brother, uncle, husband — four that I’ve called king.
Daughter, sister, niece, and lover I have been for kings.