Kind Hearts and Coronets

Kind Hearts and Coronets

In the quiet, silver‑gleaming halls of Greswell‑field,
A thousand silks and dust mingle where secrets are sealed.
The earl’s grand marble steps echo with an old hymn –
“Kind hearts are all that survive a cruel, cold diadem.”

Alec Guinness in a tux of black, his beady eye,
Moves like a chess‑piece, silent, certain, sly.
A coronet of gold, in empty thrones where death would claim,
He plots to stitch a family laced in blood‑stained fame.

The ladies in their lace whirled gowns, their pearls glinting bright,
They stand, unaware, in their genteel night.
"Darling," say the mothers, "tales of feuding kin,
They’ve gone to strangers’ graves, and our hearts begin to sin."

The cup of tea, the cheese plate, the old London fog,
All mask a plot that on the last accomplice, does a drag.
"Remove the tatler’s vest," whispers the low‑lying light,
"Let those coronets shine, let them go to dearth of plight."

The muse of kind hearts clasps, in every desperate hand,
The script of daring, risk, learning of how hope can stand.
No golden coronet can deter the restless dream,
“Kind hearts,” the actors declare, “watch, watch, glow on the stream.”

On the grand staircase, dear lads, let the fun not turn to gloom;
We must not let a corpse to the judge, been bellowed.
Ealing’s light is only a stage, satiric, bright –
Encouraging a life of you of soft and complex twilight.

In the end, the black and blue, a red cloth, and rest;
A figurative coronet is crowned in warmth at best.
The Mainland’s trails are hinting in the Swiss point,
We’ve got the you in such cascade do the relentless film.

Epilogue:

When we say he is nobody but a craven all across,
When we say in a Seventeenth Jester a brave pair biggest;
To a gambler a poor in hope, he turned the six was the making,

With the quietle on the night of our great inscriptions.