The Seventh Lord Lucan


Lord Lucan, legally, ‘presumed dead’,
Is what the bookies will have read:
Rip-up old long-suspended bets, 
Odds-off these shores, without regret.

Bingham, Lucan’s sniffy son,
Could claim a house-sat Lordly sum:
Was it worth his killing-off,
To gain a seat with fellow toffs?

The Seventh’s bloody final-foray, 
A stained rumour, via, grey Calais?
Deck-stood, stiff moustache-lipped Lord,
Ferried by friends to his last abroad?

Uckfield, his final Sussex embrace,
Then drove out to headlines of disgrace:
Was he honourable, on Newhaven’s quay,
Or was she, regretfully, ‘just a nanny’?

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