On Bosworth Field

On Bosworth Field The newsreader says he really wasn’t as deformed as we all thought, maybe not even so evil snap shot of the paper-thin skull, brokenness paraded for all the world to see, memories of history deeply buried, like his bones Richard Plantagenet, child slayer, loyal to York, died fighting to keep control; how easily his loyal supporters switched their allegiance to Henry with 10,000 men, the King fought against Lancaster, this war of roses pricking the heart of the monarchy alone, save for his loyal Thirwell (who died—legs chopped— still clutching the King’s flag) with his steed stuck in Bosworth marsh, eight blows unleashed upon his head, all hope was lost, the King was dead so how did he end up under a car park in Leicester city centre?