The word is out; the council chamber’s packed.
The archaeologist’s impatient pause,
their analytic brushes set aside,
now eagerly await with brimming pride
the brave results of Leicester’s latest dig:
“It seems we’ve dug down deep enough to find
old Herrick’s garden near the Friary
where modest virgins still lay waste their time.
We’ve dug on past King Henry’s century
who rid church edicts should he disagree.
He’s here! He’s found beneath an old car park;
his battle scars remaining on that dome.
He’s bootless, sigh! We see he’s lost his feet
that once did rush to death near Bosworth field.”
The news King Richard III is found abounds.
The English treat their treasure with such joy.
But from the strident past a prince is heard
and from that muffled tower comes a cry.
Westminster Abbey holds their royal plight.