Of Olde England & Far Lands

I were weaned on thy milk and cold gruel,
And of mutton and strong ale too did taste,
Now thee considers me a Prodigal Fool
For those years of Wandering and Waste.
For returning to Blighty w’out Substantial Prize,
Lacking visibly in the Raiments of Wealth,
Yet vast Fortunes be hidden from callow eyes :
My Knowledge of the True Inner Self.

For where doth man Learn of what is Without,
At the hearth, or in taverns lit bright ?
Reaping a Legacy of Sciolism and Gout,
The Obscurants of Perpetual Night.

In virulent High Oath I fled thy cold shores,
Damned a Lifestyle Mimetic and Loathed,
Stunted and Asphyxiated by Habitual Mores,
Chance became mine Amorous Betrothed.

And aye, such a Courtship you ne’er hath seen,
Primacy of Will reaps from Liberty’s seeds,
Aloof from the taint of thine Venomous Spleen,
Beyond the Yoke of thy Imperious Creeds,
And the false Pledge of Cradle to Grave care,
Renounced, as thee commits Youth to Wars,
Of all Common Men, none chosen to spare
In Defence of Esteemed Property’s cause.

Nay, mine Paramour and I flew our own Flag,
Far beyond thy Bastions of Empire and Self,
Of Institutional Censure and Administrative Gag,
Founded our Kingdom of Spiritual Wealth.

Aye, where the West becomes the East,
Where Sea, Sky and Land do interface,
Where eye and maw can take their feast,
At the Grand Banquet of Numinous Grace.
A Kingdom laid without Vestments nor Throne,
Without subjects pledged to my Royal Commands,
For Mistress Chance and I rule Absolute and Alone,
Yet be the Monarchs of all Far Seas and Lands.

Ne’er dine with those Rich when the Poor offer a crust,
Ne’er study close that Gilded, if steel tenders Rust,
Ne’er pray for the Sun, she’ll duly follow the Storm,
And ne’er fear a false God, created for Man’s Harm.

Aye, no Croesus am I , in the way of Wordly things,
Of Jewels or Currencies, nor of fine Golden rings,
But my Cup runneth over, in one Exacting Feature,
A Mogul of all Knowledge concerning Human Nature;
A Priceless Commodity, earned hard in distant lands,
Is Life’s Fortune bestowed that filleth now my hands.
Yet all this be naught, for mine real source of Wealth
Was the Great Becoming : True Knowledge of Myself.

So, regrets to Mother England, in thine eyes I Failed,
Pity thou rejected the ships Chance and I hath sailed;
At times she were Fickle yet became a Splendid Bride,
Saw me safe in all far harbours, regardless of the Tide.
Thus What I Am is What I Am, and lacking in True Worth
If I accept the Estimates of the Country of my Birth.
An Exile now returneth. An Imposition upon the State?
Oh nay, my dour Sovereigns, ‘twill ne’er be mine Fate,
For within thine own Hierarchy lies the Original Sin,
I shalt forever stay Without, succored by the Fires Within.

A brief sojourn in our travels, to glance over once again
Thy Cemetery of Withered Empire, cloaked in fog and rain,
To sniff the scent of Putrefaction emanating from thy shore,
A single aspiration portends we shalt return no more.
As dawn breaks on the morrow, lit by the Eastern Sun,
Back, towards the Orient dear Chance and I be gone,
For fresh upon our brows doth a fragrant Southerly blow,
So Perdition on thy Climate where Souls can never grow.
Aye, beyond thy Morbid Touch shalt Chance and I abide,
Enraptured in the Freedom our Poverty doth provide.