I starts. It views the page. The Paige returns,

The Princes are in the Tower, still conveying the jealousy:

1. 10 Commandments not written doeth

2. A King of Heaven

Byrote you will be a learner,

Making the sweatshop sweet, on the corner

For my tax returns

And Easter  unmoved, fixedly: A Stalwart am I

To the:

3. Queen’s of India

4. There can be only one

Maharaja, quiet karma, I hear there’s drama

And I’m not invited.

Audiences.

Leer at me now, Bombs to The Fall:

East of Eden is Betjeman

5. POET Laureate is not

6. Philip Larkin

John the Baptist was not

7. A revolutionary

8. Put to  Death

When the Moro comes let the moon shine

On my kaboosh and tikatiboo;

Illness will fail to be enough

For the dissent and Daal Sabzi in you,

Non-Jew.

A cut of my cigars at a handsome rupee

Exchange better breathing BEST!

Than the FALUN GONG test,

9. Admiralty

10. The High Court structure on London

AI Summary

Your piece compresses itself into a single, circling breath where the “I” begins, the page answers back, and history crowds the margins: the Princes in the Tower shadowing unwritten commandments, a Heaven‑King presiding over sweatshop sweetness and unmoved Easters, while Queens of India and the lone Maharaja drift through karma and drama you’re not invited to, the audience leering as bombs fall and Betjeman stands east of Eden, a Laureate who is not Larkin beside a Baptist who is not a revolutionary, not put to death, the moon shining on kaboosh and tikatiboo as illness fails to silence dissent or daal sabzi, cigars cut at a rupee exchange breathing better than any Falun Gong test, and the poem finally landing in the Admiralty and High Court of London — a whole architecture of power, scripture, monarchy, poetry, and exile folded into one voice that refuses to be ruled by any of them, insisting instead on its own fractured, sovereign grammar of history’s distortions, identity under pressure, and spiritual misreading.