Every 'Ception a New Direction

If some butler being in-keep,
buttled away the washing bowl,
I would undisturbéd sleep,
and rest my weary soul.
But having not the pounds and pence,
to fill the butler’s pocket,
the bowl remains in full suspense,
a suspect on the docket.
Oh, if I were so inclined,
not to fill my mouth so often,
with scones and tea and sit reclined,
the bready treats a-scoffin.
But I am lacking of the will,
and stuff my face and stomach,
with fruity treats they do distil,
in Shropshire, Kent and Suffolk.
These indulgent ways I fear,
will cause a crashing wracking,
of the crockery chandelier,
created by their stacking.
My dreams this image thusly stalks:
the balance of the cutlery!
My mind is plagued by jammy forks,
and plates that are all buttery.

-

The Bowl

by Andy Balmer

Came the soldiers, burly men,
All armour, bang, and bustle them.
With office armed, held high afore,
They came a-marching through my door.
Halting, casting frowns about,
The foremost eyed me up in doubt,
And enquired of me, in husky tones,
Whether there were a master home.
Now set your minds, listeners do,
And conjure up that dastard crew;
Grizzled and fierce in numbered dozen,
That only lords of men could govern.
And give no haste to call me coward,
When I tell you that I cowered,
And answered timid, damning lines -
“My master on his couch reclines.”
And though I knew it was explicit,
“What’s the purpose of your visit?”
Came tumbling off my trembling tongue.
Oh, what a fool I had become!

Their sergeant then, with gnashing teeth,
Gazed a brimstone glare at me.
He said, “We come to make arrest,
Of a man defaulting on his debts.”
Sighed I aloud, “My master’s vice!
He is enamoured of the dice!
If only he were any good,
I’m sure you would not be here stood.”
“Hush now, boy, my patience seeps,
Take us to the one we seek.”
Spoke firm the leader, nostrils flared,
Oh, how I squirmed to ‘scape his stare!
I turned about and walked ahead,
My chest a-heaving, full of dread.
Curse this hateful, horrid day!
What would my master of me say?
“Judas!” he’d cry, and pointing condemn,
His servant complicit with these men.
In shame I stumped toward his door;
My eyes - cast down - dragged o’er the floor.
In lifting my hand to the brassen knob,
I felt the vessels in my temples throb.
Then a noise within the room I heard…
Could it be my master stirred?

Conscious of these bladed men,
Comes he out to speak with them?
Ill conceived and doomed to fail,
Is such a plan with him so frail.
Yet came he on - I heard him ‘proach,
His mediation scheme to broach.
The men, impatient, called to him,
“Thou opst this door ‘fore we break in!
Our employer makes no empty threats;
Thou shalt now pay on all thy debts.”
Yet silence reigned and loud its rule,
Our anticipation its precious fuel -
These men, so used to threat and effect,
Now hesitated to reflect…

And that was all my master needed -
Their pause left him now unimpeded.
The door flew open, out he leapt,
And shot the first thug in the neck;
Slashed the second; and a third;
Through the fourth and fifth he blurred.
The sixth he cut from groin to chin;
The seventh suffered a severed limb,
While eight and nine were hacked apart,
And number ten stabbed through the heart.
The remaining pair, faces white,
Were spared the dirvish (victor’s right),
And told to give their master word,
His request for payment had been heard,
And although a blow to the collector,
He’d not be paid by this old debtor.
Not ever.

* * *

A price of them would be demanded,
for returning empty handed.
Thus they took the long route mulling,
all the while behind them pulling
the heavy weight of trepidation:
quartering and then castration.
Above, the sky a crimson red,
a warning to the nearly dead:
one more step to no return;
one foot closer to the urn.
But rather than their path assuage,
the sky did calm them into rage.
A quiet mind of burning venom,
now the time to see what’s in ‘em:
why must they pay the bounty due,
when theirs was blood that served the blue?
But having seen their colleagues cut,
and leak together gut with gut,
both their minds did this evince:
square the debtor, slay the Prince.
Ideas thus above their station
to cut his throat and rule the nation!
The pair bowed to the golden throne,
and feigning they their sins atone,
did introduce his neck to steel,
his own tongue made his final meal.
But having they the Prince dispensed,
wouldst not the King some recompense?
Wouldst not the monarch thusly seek
out their skulls and vengeance eke?
And so the two, discarding boots,
tiptoed the stairs and in cahoots,
did creep inside the old man’s chamber,
to wake him from his sickened slumber,
and then would take the knives and slip,
a gash from hip to royal hip.
But pulling back the stately sheet,
found only cotton over wheat.

Had the King heard some commotion?
How now ensure their swift promotion?
If word was true the King was dying,
the Prince had ruled as his retiring
frame lay upon the royal bed.
The Prince the body, the King the head.
For thirty years or more this truth,
had governed in his absence proof
positive that the King was living,
the Prince a puppet of his bidding.
But there was rumour at the palace,
that the Prince with spite and malice,
had sent the old man out to wane,
and took the profits of the reign,
indulging pleasure of the basest,
lost the crown hand over fist,
and thus had sought to then collect,
the final coin of the true Prefect.

And thinking now about this tale,
the soldier’s faces drained to pale,
for looking to the bedroom side,
a portrait hanged in place of pride,
the king’s face set in perfect view,
did look down fiercely at the two.
Their fate thus sealed they took a breath,
and drawing swords each welcomed death.

* * *

“They killed the king!”
“They what the whom?”
“They did for him
In his own room!”
“Who did this thing?”
“The remaining two!”
“Then the prince is king.”
“But he’s dead too!
What a mess we’re in
Because of you!”

“How dare you say
That I’m at fault?!
I refused to pay;
And I’m no dolt –
They’d take what lay
Inside my vault,
And then they’d say,
‘He’s in default.
We’re owed this wage
In more than salt’”

“Now go you man;
Fetch my lawyer.
First down this dram
And go the swifter.
Into his hand
Put this paper;
Tell him the plan
I’ll see him later.”

With their remains
Must I be done.
Buried as slain –
One by one?
Or heaped in shame?
A mercy for some
Of those who came;
Their sympathies numb.
Their only gain
From this old one,
Beside the fame,
Was twisted fun
From him in pain.

Clandestine though
My history,
Many know
To leave me be.
A dozen rogues
For one like me?
I look quite old,
Near seventy,
But alluring gold
Calls hungrily.
Twelve killer blows
Should do for me.

Yet it did not.

-

Old Debtor by Tom Markham
and its sequel
The Remaining Two by Andy Balmer
and the sequel to that
Fetch My Lawyer by Tom Markham

Now, we’re surely missing characters; there are plotholes, damn it; and, of course, we need some more jokes so we invite you to write your own sequel/spin-off and send it in to tmarkham@ceptiontheatre.co.uk and we’ll post your addition.

Hell, if you co-operate and start collaborating I might just devote a new blog especially.  Then you’ll be famous and your Google rankings will soar!

A price of them would be demanded,
for returning empty handed.
Thus they took the long route mulling,
all the while behind them pulling
the heavy weight of trepidation:
quartering and then castration.
Above, the sky a crimson red,
a warning to the nearly dead:
one more step to no return;
one foot closer to the urn.
But rather than their path assuage,
the sky did calm them into rage.
A quiet mind of burning venom,
now the time to see what’s in ‘em:
why must they pay the bounty due,
when theirs was blood that served the blue?
But having seen their colleagues cut,
and leak together gut with gut,
both their minds did this evince:
square the debtor, slay the Prince.
Ideas thus above their station
to cut his throat and rule the nation!
The pair bowed to the golden throne,
and feigning they their sins atone,
did introduce his neck to steel,
his own tongue made his final meal.
But having they the Prince dispensed,
wouldst not the King some recompense?
Wouldst not the monarch thusly seek
out their skulls and vengeance eke?
And so the two, discarding boots,
tiptoed the stairs and in cahoots,
did creep inside the old man’s chamber,
to wake him from his sickened slumber,
and then would take the knives and slip,
a gash from hip to royal hip.
But pulling back the stately sheet,
found only cotton over wheat.

Had the King heard some commotion?
How now ensure their swift promotion?
If word was true the King was dying,
the Prince had ruled as his retiring
frame lay upon the royal bed.
The Prince the body, the King the head.
For thirty years or more this truth,
had governed in his absence proof
positive that the King was living,
the Prince a puppet of his bidding.
But there was rumour at the palace,
that the Prince with spite and malice,
had sent the old man out to wane,
and took the profits of the reign,
indulging pleasure of the basest,
lost the crown hand over fist,
and thus had sought to then collect,
the final coin of the true Prefect.

And thinking now about this tale,
the soldier’s faces drained to pale,
for looking to the bedroom side,
a portrait hanged in place of pride,
the king’s face set in perfect view,
did look down fiercely at the two.
Their fate thus sealed they took a breath,
and drawing swords each welcomed death.

-

The Returning Two

by Andy Balmer

In response to the poem posted 11th August.  Andy felt the two who survived had a story of their own and now the Prince is dead!  You can join in this storypoem by sending in your own piece - expand on this story with the wives of the mercenaries, or the truth behind the monarchy, or the reason for the martial skill of the old man; anything you like that fits and in any style you wish - to tmarkham@ceptiontheatre.co.uk and I’ll post it here to continue this epic tale of cowardly servants, traitorous mercenaries, and who knows what next?!