Nelson's Secret
In my memory,
The smell of books and chalk and chewy
Are the history lessons I loved,
With their tales of guns and kings and kismet,
And the life and times of the planet
Stretched out in a line just below the ceiling,
I fell in love with that portrait
Of Charles the something or other,
With his silly wig and sad eyes,
And hated World War One,
With its mud and blood
And guts and gas;
No, I prefer my genocides romanticised,
And always like the “kiss me” version better anyway.
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