who complains that previous advice overlooks that if his son claims the king is mad, Britain's fate will be seriously compromised.
Your love takes root, you wed your wife,
your seed is sown to breed new life.
But now your fruit is ripe to rot,
and you bemoan what you begot.
Bemoan my foot! You should delight
his true worth's known while you can fight!
Though he's a brute, your son won't win:
he's just a baddy, zonked in gin.
He's not astute to cast some doubt
on what his daddy's sure about
(though that's a moot point, I decree:
that you are mad is clear to me.)
To grab his loot he must make plain,
when lawyers quiz him, that your brain
is fast en route to lunch in Surrey.
But that's just fizz, you need not worry.
And I dispute your cause to fear
that claim of his. 'Tis hardly clear
what harm his suit could do to Brits,
whose pastime is to lose their wits.
