In 1492

Good afternoon, y'all. It's halfway-ish through NaNoWriMo, and while I haven't been cranking out the expected 1667 words per day, I have been cranking out a poem a day. And that, my dear friends, is still something.

There's an old saying that there's a novel in everyone. I think mine fell out. SO, in the meanwhile, here's a poem about someone you know.

IN 1492

I sit here on my gilded throne, scepter in my hand,
looking past the mizzenmast, in search of our new land.

Three ships, have I, at my behest, flanking either side.
The sun, the stars, shine up above, the moon, she is my bride.

It was surely luck, for me, to strike while the iron’s hot.
Enterprising, yes it was, to reap what I have wrought.

The Queen was on my side, and using all her wit,
told the King, “He’s brilliant, darling dear, just let him do it.”

Less my pride, and short my sight, we plowed into the sea.
Splashing blue-limed waves, and my mistresses three,

set in search for India, for our spices added much
variety to our palettes (and silver by the bunch).

I’d be a God, you know, and worshipped at my feet,
which is why I need it all, and the whole damned fleet.

Surely it won’t be long, before we’ve struck our gold.
The water’s getting deeper, and it’s getting cold.

I hope this country shows up soon, the crew is growing mad.
(Not that I should care about it, but it makes me sad).

“Hark! It’s land,” said he, and not a spot too soon.
We’ll disembark onto the land, make the ladies swoon,

trade for what is rightfully ours, kill those who disagree.
To each his own his fortune owed, and let the gold flow free!

This land, so gorgeous, we should take some people back,
teach them, convert them, and if they should attack,

we’ve got swords and guns, and cannons accompli.
It’d be foolish for them to do so, we’ll tell them quite simply.

This land, so bountied, it feels so great to be a
God in this land of godless heathens. Hail! New India!

-JR Simmang

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