Septimus Severus

I

 

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!