Exile with a Smile

I'm glad the empire is finally falling. It's been a shade shy of useless for some time now, it will provide a contrast in the future for what we will never again. But for now it's on the forefront of it's imminent end. And I can't blame them for exiling me when they did. I was a light so bright I could only go out at night, even then it was a fight if I didn't keep my steps right. I was/am a penmen, used to be quill & it used to be quite a thrill, what I'd write would have me killed, be it that I wasn't so clever, seeing this empire fall in this body would I have never. Luckily during those times I had the foresight to fornicate with the late judge's wife, she swayed him away from giving me to the knife, exiled instead, God she gave good head. I'd lick her down to her toes & watch her cold heart melt from froze. She was no doubt ruthless, but truth is you had to be that way back in the day or you'd hold no position not washed with history's omission. Sure women couldn't work officially, but they're always the ones running things initially. She may have strayed but for groceries from the coup, but best believe her man ran her loop. She'd give me the scoop on who was watching & plotting my demise, I stayed wise and distributed my publications in secret, a secret I knew no one would keep it, but that too part of my plan, how my writings kept "terrorizing" the land, the higher ups couldn't understand. I guess satisfying the print shop keeper's wife wasn't the worst decision I had made in my life. She was a bit thicker but I liked how it jiggled when I'd stick her. She'd let me know when her husband was out for the night, and I'd go publish what I'd write. Father a forester who had links to pulp & paper, I used my own supplies so the only one that was wiser was her and our maker. I'd clean my mess, then deliver my press. Political, poetic and far from rhetoric, no one knew my name, but they read my words all the same. I kept them informed, sharpened their brains with art & truth, I was a wizard and a rascal in my youth.

Eventually one night when my step wasn't right, I was caught in the sight of a widow I used to ignite, without her husband alive to provide an ink connection, I didn't stop by often to offer my affection, this rejection led her to lead the authorities to my detection. Treason They were pleasing to place upon my permanent record, but I deflected such mentally neglected naming claiming I but the delivery boy and never met the writer who held my employ. Some knew it wasn't true but there wasn't much they could do. Instead of a hanging the gavel gave a banging to the next best option that's bare the higher ups face into smile. I was sentenced to exile, hell even I smiled, I preferred keeping my life, and I knew it paid off sleeping with the gavel banger's wife. Old England sent me off to France, they thought that was near enough to decapitation, and I couldn't have lucked out in a better nation. They loved my art, I loved their food, they loved to be rude, and their women were far from prude.

Thirty years of endless romances later, countless books on paper, paintings in museums, the truth of my once political predictions, they have come to see 'em. The empires crumbling, my words heard as echoing rumblings. Political fumblings, citizens standing for nothing else but honest progression, writing my art but foreseeing my profession. Happy I am to share the blessing and blessed they are to have withstood that mess, pass the test and come this far. Perhaps even my exile will be pardoned, now demising is that which once was harden. I'd love to visit an English garden, and by chance sneak at least a glance of that dear judge's wife, oh how beautiful is life.