I am a seventh son of a seventh son of a seventh son…
Of a king.
Which leaves me… somewhat… mmmmm?
Rather distant to the throne
And we all live in a two-up two down in Bromsgrove;
Which means I am never alone.
And my birth name is Septimus
Which would be okay, if not for my strange obsession with certain clothing, and my sickly-sweet smelling whiff of decay
So they call me the ‘Septic Nun’
I am the blackest sheep in our family
Oh, well there has to be one.
I have none of the refinement of royalty,
Nothing about me is posh,
I haven’t got stacks of money
I’ve only a little dosh,
And the only time that I go clubbing
Is late nights with a cosh.
My family tried to disown me.
They said I lowered the tone.
They left me in an instant
And refused to know who I was
I asked them why they did it
They just said “Because!”
So, I tried to live up to expectations
Great they were not to be.
There were hundreds of hoighty-toighty cousins
And lowly-do-lally me.
So, I sued them for every penny
I took them for all they were worth
I, Septimus Seventiumsonson,
Am now master and ruling the Earth.
Which, for a time, seemed unlikely
But, this is a poem of note,
And, I, in a moment of glory,
Can almost make you believe what I wrote.
For, actually, if the truth be told,
There is nobody here but a writer
Of poems, growing disgracefully old.
Who, has only just written this one –
And they call him the Sceptical Nun!