England:

'Tis poison arrows you throw,

Thick bladed with the sweet nothings of promise.

"Heavy" quoth the flimsy words you beseech

But the saccharine oozing from your pores

Tempt me otherwise.

Would you be but the sweetest flower,

If your pricks hadn't wounded me so!

Oh sweet, dear rose,

What lovely petals you've strewn at my feet,

Ones that gawd and provoke

To tempt my beating chest to exchange its drums for hymns.

But what is rain to a flower?

I will only ravage the softness of your pollen,

Break the stem of an otherwise innocent existence.

And you will softly sing of my disgrace

While my rain lays puddled at my feet.

Hark, what light shines here?

Enter America

America:

Alas, pity may be the only light strewn to you.

I see nothing more than an unwholesome pear,

Prickled and bitter from the sun.

Your skin holds only rank stiffness,

Shriveled from a sour seed.

Yet with a dove's call you coo,

With loneliness at your beck.

I will not be a slave to your fancies,

For shame, small dove.

England:

You flatter me flower,

'Tis a commodity, your compliments.

Yet I cannot be the softness,

The sweet tenderness your pear commands.

For I am an apple of Adam's,

Deceitful with the poison of promise.

A bitter seed indeed lies at my core,

It is that which makes me cruel.

If I were to let you take of my flesh,

To devour the skin of my being,

Surely my bitter seed would choke,

Unwittingly taking of your innocence,

And polluting your soul.

Relish in my being a pear,

But never eat of me.

And a bird?

How sweet you think of me,

To be fleeting of mind,

Soft of touch.

Indeed I may be a bird,

For under the prickles of gooseflesh,

Therein lies that which kills the true maiden.

My wings are pestilence and miasma,

My call is that of a banshee.

I must be the king of crows!

America:

You attempt to frighten with words of madness,

Yet through the eyes of a snake,

I see a love-sickened pigeon,

Feathers heavy with the water of your acid irises.

Foolish pigeon,

The spring in your eyes have seen too many rains.

As an aside

Would thou let me be the sun to whet thy temper,

To sharpen the rays of your soul,

I would strike down the clouds that hang in your chest,

In riddance of the diluted curtain of your person.

'Tis never a long-living pigeon that cries.

England:

Tush,

I would think you a Forget-Me-Not had you but remembered,

How pigeons' folly is of head not heart.

Silly flower,

How can you look upon a bird when your head is too far below?

America:

Fie, fine!

You are the crowned Prince of Crows,

You are the accursed and hated sickness,

You are the bringer of deceit,

You are the harbinger of death,

You are the spoilt milk of the earth,

That and many more curses you are.

England:

Now you must see me as I am!

America:

I see a broken crowned crow,

With feathers steeped in oily regret.

I see a blunted beak,

Breaking from one too many pecks,

All to an ungiving wall,

Holding precious life from you.

As an side

I would scatter petals, leaves, seeds,

If I could only feed you,

A starved crow,

That desires to peck but not fly o'er walls.

Back to England

You have the name of a King,

Yet no kingly words will you speak,

Not even of your shadow.

You talk as though you mean little,

Littler than the worms you devour.

Why, Arthur?

Are you not deserving?

Are you not good (enough)?

England:

You mistake me,

Pretty flower I am a king!

A king of miscreants,

A king of misdeeds,

I am the deserving king of a blackened crown!

See how my skin cracks,

Look how my nails break,

I am the dead, and the dead is my kingdom!

America:

Then give of me your crown!

It is too heavy for your sky-bound head.

You deserve the clouds,

Not this dirt and nettle death.

England:

No, petite flower.

These tarry feathers heavy of sin,

Cracked voice from repent,

This is my fate.

A flower is meant to float on a breeze,

A crow is meant to feast on the leftovers of what once was.

America:

Then let me give you more!

Are you in want of emotion?

I will give it.

Are you in want of freedom?

Here, take it.

Are you in want of isolation?

I can manage it.

You cannot survive off the scraps of lovers,

No king of crows is that!

England:

I want no emotion,

I have no heart to hold it in.

I want no freedom,

I have no place to take it.

I want no isolation,

I have no comfort to give it.

And you forget, sweet daisy.

Kings hold most, 'tis true.

But as a king of that which has nothing,

I should have least of all.

That is what it means to be king of crows.

America:

Stop of this nonsense!

You call me flower,

But it is your language that is the most perfumed.

How many lady's roses, how many tulips,

How many lilies, how many bluebells,

Do your lungs hold?

England:

Laughs

Far too many, flower.

I suppose it's right to accuse me

Of swallowing your kind.

I am too enraptured in

The softness you promise.

I hold a slight affliction

Each time a breeze meets my breath.

Yet, as you must know,

I've found an addiction in the pecking of flowers.

But only just a peck,

After which I go.

A dying crow never does well to the health of buds.

England kisses America on the cheek.

Farewell, love.

America:

Halt, I say, stop!

America kisses England on the lips.

England:

I am at a loss.

America:

I would consider this a gain.

Will you fly away,

Christened dove?

England:

I would like…

America:

How now,

Why so quiet?

You spoke like a babbling jay.

England:

I've infected a pure daisy,

How can words ever undo a crow's peck to the mouth?

I cannot watch,

You will crumble to ash from me,

I must go,

I love you too much!

America:

And I say I am fine!

Silly dove,

I've never been a daisy.

I am thorned bush, I see now.

I've entangled you in vines,

Confused you flap and wrap yourself more.

Please, calm and unwind.

My thorns will disappear if you ask.

England:

I...would like that.

They kiss

I suppose, I might enjoy being a dove.

America:

Coo in the morning or when I tumble you,

But wait 'till seclusion before either come.

They walk away together.