The former poet prince surveys his domains.

The former poet prince
Head in the clouds and up his arse
Walks out across his former lands
To check the places and the poems that were his.

I know, I know, no more poems about poems,
Yes, yes, I remember, not words, give us things.
He'd not forgotten, just about recalled walking here,
His world, the world, not shrunk to this, just this.

Standing in July in a glade of Tibetan Balsam,
Their head high orchid flowers laden with dew and nectar,
A feast for a thousand bees that turned slowly
To circle about his head, singing the poet's praises.

Listen, they sang, listen, you are the one, we have been waiting for,
And in the autumn he stood in a field of thistles below the hills,
And they lifted their white heads about him whispering his name
...