The Poetry Corner

Poor Kings

By William Henry Davies

God's pity on poor kings, They know no gentle rest; The North and South cry out, Cries come from East and West, "Come, open this new Dock, Building, Bazaar or Fair." Lord, what a wretched life Such men must bear. They're followed, watched and spied, No liberty they know; Some eye will watch them still, No matter where they go. When in green lanes I muse, Alone, and hear birds sing, God's pity then, say I, On some poor king.