To smell the blood-stains.
To discuss prison conditions with the ravens.
To lie in a cell writing scallop-shell verses.
To hold the Sovereign’s Sceptre in my hand.
To patrol in red-and-gold uniform.
To stand watch over the river for marauders.
To lick the stone,
medieval, Georgian, Tudor.
To bite my tongue.
To mock at treason,
that cuckolded idea.
To instruct the lions.
To bring the Prime Minister and Cabinet
by barge from Westminster to the water-gate.
On Guy Fawkes’ Night 2012, a burglar scaled the Front Gate of the Tower and stole a set of keys. He has not been caught.