Soliloquy of the Bones

A couple of weeks ago The Spectator poetry competition challenged folks to write a Shakespearean soliloquy from the perspective of Richard III's ghost, reflecting on the recent find of his in a Leicester car park. My entry didn't make it. So now in the spirit of being jaded and bitter and twisted, here it is.

Soliloquy of the Bones
Now is the winter of our disinterment.
These few poor feet of asphalt are the stage
In which our glory manifests once more -
A huddled bag of bones against the day.
A car. A car. My kingdom for a car.
I would survey my longtime-widowed realm -
Bare concrete, petrol stations, fish'n'chips,
Land bleak, land cold: the dead amongst the dead.
To be or not to be the next day's headlines,
By rows of slickly-painted plastic faces,
Or in the gallery, a sickly clutter
Of rotting bones to tittilate the kiddies.
I would not have it: cover me again,
With silent earth fill up my private hole,
I'll find my whole in nothingness once more:
Rebury me: these joints are out of time.