Just don’t call me Dick, please.

Raining now.

Summer and it’s raining,

Can you believe this?

Now is the season of my discontent.

I don’t know how it works,

Maybe the humidity or something,

Gives me a lot of pain in the upper back.

Been like this all my life.

Maybe this is why.

I just get hung over, when I drink,

Holed up at Gloucester, up the castle.

Would that we had more entertainment,

But all the jugglers and troubadours,

Are with my elder brothers in The Tower.

And I have only these old ghosts,

moaning around to keep me happy.

So maybe that’s why.

And let’s face it,

It’s not like there’s so much kindness.

Sure, they all needed me when the war was on,

But now? Nothing. Seeya later, dicky-gater.

And the don’t really hope in their hearts ,

To see me. None of them do.

So maybe that’s why.

Being a Plantagenet sucks!

I’m going to die a horrible way,

We all do. That’s the curse.

I’ll get drowned if a ship sinks,

Taking me across some water,

Or I’ll get stabbed,

Or get the pox,

Or dysentery in a cold damp camp.

And you know my kind brothers,

Will probably be the reason for whatever gets me.

So maybe that’s why.

So the hell with it.

If life hands you lemons,

You get a better life.

You don’t bother with making juice.

that's for the losers.