That period of Tyranny
In the Khanate of The Golden Horde
When the infant khan’s six uncles
Despoiled the land until each one
Was strangled by a Kurdish eunuch
Himself then sacrificed in gratitude
To their gods of
Steppe and eagle’s cry.
That Pythagorean formula
That proves that six,
Divided by itself, is
Neither greater nor lesser
Than the sum of its own square root
Subdivided by itself.
The title of a Sherlock Holmes
Mystery somehow involving
Half a cricket team
That Conan Doyle himself
Burnt in the grate
Once he perceived
It was, after reflection, just
Too farfetched and ridiculous.
A lost bejewelled straight edge
For measuring the Golden Mean
Created by Fermat himself
To measure the immeasurable
Until Descartes, with a dirty laugh,
Claimed it was the length of Fermat’s cock.
They say the rule was melted down
By order of a secret Papal Court.
The mocking epitaph scratched on
The cell doors which served as tombstones, Of those now nameless functionaries
Who, the legends say, coined a phrase
Of such aching banality, not fiendishly
Thus to disguise the true despotic nature
Of their draconian edict
But just because they were themselves banal.
The words - it’s claimed they are the same -
Were scratched by unknown hands
Some centuries
after The Reckoning
By which time
tempers
Had somewhat cooled.