The Prince and the Pauper

July 5, 2017

Did you see his red corvette
parked at the top of the hill—
He was trying to get home,
the inquiry said,
Who could enter that marsh, so flooded,
he was last seen in regalia,
gold braid in the sun.

“Oh he was a handsome lad, “
his neighbors whispered, “a shy one,
but, oh, inside his home, what sounds he’d make,
such a pleasing boy, such taste in clothes.”
The crows flew overhead pounding the air,
“He died of Aids, you know.”
The ravens argued “suicide, suicide, suicide.”
“What does it matter?” the doves cried, “now
Prince will never be Prom King.”
So what if his toothless uncle inherits,
money, the reporter tweeted,
he can only taste tea instead of steak.
“It was never that, his friends said, “never the money.
It was the sounds he’d make inside the house,
he’d bring out at night, finally safe in the spotlight.”
Now that it’s Autumn, and the rain has stopped,
do you see the bottom land
covered with purple mist, rich with greenery,
filled with birdsong of every kind—
He must have made it through.


~ Grace Cavalieri




To read more fantastic poetry dedicated to Prince, go to