L'Histoire du Parc des Buttes Chaumont

Mon Gars, this hill, once filled with crossbows,
pointing at mad dogs from Normandy,
thereafter flaunted three tiers of gibbets
where nooses dangled or the king's justice
to show Parisians, Jews, and gypsies
crime only pays the hangman's wages.

When Queen Margaret complained after dusk
she barely could see all of the hangings
his majesty pointedly ordered
beggars, thieves, lords if he pleased
and bishops if need be, hang after vespers,
beaconed by lanterns for God and the queen.

Little did Louie know she was mad
although her lady in waiting did,
observing the fool fanning her face
each time her grace mentioned the weather,
thinking it August for December.
"I feel like mushrooms frying today.
Is Enguerrand dead yet, Mon Cheri?"
she said when Valois feigned tasting the wine.

Mon Gars, but for the flowers you see
that grow over bones and trebuchets
by which new mothers stare at lovers
whose tree trunk comfort hides secret kisses,
even the children up on the knoll
would know what kings then would not see,
that this was one of hell's seven rings
with more than said Valois on a king's string.

Edited version from "The 5 Senses Challenge" in "Poetry Feedback and Discussion."