King Harold is my son, who went to
The Normans, whose coming from Michael's mount
Has rent this isle. King Harold was my son.
For William schemed and lied and stabbed and won
And set his crones to weaving of his might.
While blood spewed out from English wounds, a fount
That boiled up like a comet. We are done.
And now those toothless dogs without a bite
Can yap about and jump over shadows,
Can come when called by William's whelps, can yowl
In imitation of that tortured tongue
That 'presses me, that makes each gaudy vowel
A spear point at my breast, while bones, like dung,
Lie hard and bleached along Hastings meadows.