The Last Plantagenet

Richard the Third, I say you all!
 Was there ever a king so vile?
 Stabbing his long way to the throne
 With a traitor's self-serving smile.
 What a fiend! O how glad the people were,
 When King Henry destroyed this brute.
 So say the Tudor histories,
 And they're surely beyond dispute.
 How on earth to bury such a king?
 Hold no funeral, throw a fête!
 Still, we must ask, is this the truth
 Of the last Plantagenet?
 Fiercely young Richard armies led
 To defend brother Edward's throne.
 Their middle brother traitor turned,
 And his life forfeit to atone.
 But when Edward at forty died from vice,
 And Protector he Richard named,
 Caught, unprepared, 'twixt widow Queen
 And the Kingmakers' warring claims.
 His advisers all were chess masters,
 Each one scheming against a threat.
 Swiftly the pawn did king himself,
 As the last Plantagenet.
 Had he his nephew Princes killed?
 It could be: Richard was no saint.
 But if he erred in dealing death,
 It was toward mercy and restraint.
 For he left noble houses well intact,
 And great trouble for him they'd make...
 Unlike the Tudors' bloody reigns
 For they never made that mistake.
 When King Henry gave the death decree,
 Did his father-in-law regret
 Having switched sides and sealed the fate
 Of the last Plantagenet?
 Two years upon the throne's not long
 For a king to perfect his art.
 Courtly intrigues were not his taste,
 And he never could play the part.
 But if most of the nobles loved him not,
 To the common folk he was true,
 Freeing us from corruption's grip:
 Aye, he did what king must do.
 If it be his only legacy
 That the poor might escape from debt,
 Deeply indeed his people mourned
 For the last Plantagenet.
 Bravely did our abandoned king
 Meet his ending on Bosworth field,
 Felled by a ring of twenty swords,
 To the last, though, he would not yield.
 He was too much the soldier, swift to act,
 Surely this was his fatal trait.
 Now he's remade, by Tudor scribes,
 Patient schemer for all to hate.
 Did they bury Richard? Just his name,
 And the rest are we bid forget.
 Let us blame thirty years of strife
 On the last Plantagenet.
 Though they call him England's enemy,
 In my mind, I can see him yet:
 Twenty armed men all bearing down
 On the last Plantagenet.