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This poem is taken from PN Review 127, Volume 25 Number 5, May - June 1999.

A Welshman's Flora Robert Minhinnick


They read poems here every year
In memory of the last king,
Ambushed and strung up.
But he was no better than he might have been -
That leather apron over his arse,
An iron lid on his heart.


I stayed in Richard Burton's buttonhole
A whole week. He never even changed his underwear.
And always the same formula:
Start with champagne, finish with scotch.
That kind of desperation is what life's all about.
I wouldn't have missed it for the world.


Before you cover me
With your glass parliament

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