Ballade: The Six Wives

Oh great muse, cause these words to fly.
This word work is that of a woe,
Dealt by a prince, dead from his thigh.
Wife to Wife, the more he did know,
It was very sure he would grow.
Finding a son caused him much strife,
Angering his precious ego,
Making him find a brand new wife.

The first, the best, will make you cry.
Born in Spain, she would often sew,
The doublets of he who would lie.
Divorced, dead in the cold snow.
The second, the witch, she did sow
Evil and death, which are now rife.
The French sword became her last beau,
Making him find a brand new wife.

The third, beloved, did indeed die,
Giving the king a prince in tow.
The fourth, foreign, was like a sigh.
Divorced, named ugly as a crow,
Out of Hampton Court she would go.
The rest could be played with the fife.
Number five took the last axe blow.
Making him find a brand new wife.

L'Envoi de Marie et Philippe

I am sorry, my queen, for lo
Like thy father, you lost your life.
Thus England lost the king, her glow.
Making him find a brand new wife.