The Keeper of the Heads

The smell is a fine one; The death of a traitor is always sweet I feel the pulse of the cheers echo through the city when the mighty fall or the wretched scum meet their end Then they send the heads to me Parboiled Dipped in tar Beautifully macabre And I get to work Proudly plying my trade For there's a colour to my craft and a heritage I'm proud to continue If there's time, I'll slowly snake my way along to the Southwark gate Passing each shop, each house Hearing every call Acknowledging every known face Through the bustle and noise Soaking up the bridges' glorious atmosphere It's a joy to serve the King and the City in this way This is more than just a pike More than just a head It's a Showpiece Yes, I confess the odd specimen gives me trouble Becomes a tad too putrid Or too popular with the pecking gulls Some tell me they've seen empty eye sockets stare and rotting flesh twitch 'Unnerving' is the word they use. I don't see it myself, but Now and then one will cause a fuss and jam the bridge solid As everyone clamours to get a look I smile. Wait for nightfall And yield it to the Thames Rather a shame, but it clears some space for the next one And, of course, there is always a next one.