The Regent’s Bastard’s Grandson: First Wake

Wake tries himself in a bonnet and lady's jacket

The Regent’s Bastard’s Grandson

 

And what do they keep in their reticules

It has been his job to make them give these over

This post a vulgar letdown, but Wake earns enough

To keep the rent up

While these holiday-makers, these thieves of the Queen’s revenue

These women

Sneer…they sneer behind a pretense of anxiety

Wake is the scion of royalty

Goes to show

He bends, hands clasped at his back, and circles

Gives, does he suspect, a bustle stuffed with Turkish

A smack

She shrieks

“No, madam, I won’t touch you…needn’t worry”

He says it stiffly, mumbles

Makes a point, before their eyes, of going in

To the elbow, plumping up the linings

Of their trunks

 

Well, we all know bloody Wake, the Bristol Ripper

No one wants him

 

Not so! Not so…ha! You know me, sir

Try to trap me

But I’ve seen things…and yes, who won’t like to know?

 

Then, do you suppose, the guest says, sotto voce, to the host

He’ll have gone, by tomorrow evening’s summoning?

He won’t, the girl Celt guiding them advises

Old Wake is next in line, and so the matter rests

His is a soul maligned, he has the right

To speak his piece

 

Copyright 2017 Stephanie Foster

 

Bon Marché: Second Wake

 

Calmacott’s Brother (one): First Calmacott

 

 

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