The Remains of the King

Every little while,
in tracking past obsessions,
I sift through dusty files
and find in my possession

a story in the archive
of characters long dead:
like bees in summer hives,
they once flew round my head.

It’s how I read today
of Bert, a Labor “pollie”
who honed his wilful ways
to the point of shameless folly.

Though the newspaper has yellowed
and its print is not as black
this maverick hasn’t mellowed,
his ploys come rushing back.

As King of the wild West End
he fiddled ballot books,
said rules were made to bend
and went to bed with crooks.

He made a heap of dough
and ran a shelter for the poor
while never slow to show
the rent-boys through his door.

When the King came to die
he had himself embalmed:
you have to wonder why,
there was no one to be charmed.

The subtle old knave
lay in a copper-lined box
when lowered to his grave—
one lad threw down some rocks.

Last year they disinterred him
to take samples of his tissues:
the need was dark and grim
to settle several issues,

like who was this man’s father,
the premier or a pimp?
Bert claimed it was the former
but his case is looking limp.

Members of the press
and historians gathered round
the controversial mess
in the grave-site’s opened ground.

That’s why I love my files—
old stories will revive
and villains with their wiles
rise up and come alive.