Cri de coeur courtesy thirty something English earl cry baby

the Earl of Yarmouth (William Seymour)
a descendant of very late
(to the power of Google - ha) Jane Seymour,
Henry VIII's third wife
currently in a legal battle with his parents,
the Marquess and Marchioness of Hertford,
over the family estate, Ragley Hall
located in Alcester,
Warwickshire, England, at B49 5NJ
constitutes a 17th century
Palladian stately home
set in 450 acres of parkland in Warwickshire
sued his parents for "trauma"
after NOT inheriting a 6,000 acre,
$105 million estate for his thirtieth birthday
contrary to the rule of primogeniture.

how cruel, shameless and unspeakable
unnecessary psychological suffering
ensued, imposed, and ordained
upon talking head of said heir
being royal parentage Livin' on a Prayer
(courtesy Jon Bon Jovi)
lamented being shortchanged
courtesy supposed stingy parents,
who did not even bequeath a damned weir.

if locked out of a sizable estate
yours truly too would fight tooth and nail
(no matter I wear dentures)
against being denied patrimony
(ranking as a worse fate than death),
cue marionette strings to pull tight
and the listener to pantomime
violins to orchestrate
voiding any chance at tête-à-tête
not deeding a modest fortune
to first born male heir,
hence forcing eldest son
to hire himself (with egg on his face)
out as a yokemate.

aforementioned tidy fortune
linkedin with tragi-comic high drama
will inevitably be exhausted
courtesy bickering as countless
court - battles him
of the republic in which it stands...
(plagiarizing pledge of allegiance
for personal mutinous gain)
ensue - forcing prodigal son against father,
and holy ghost supposed
descendent of Jane Seymour,
whose spirit can host the pity party
perhaps even reviving
the court of King Crimson
subtle allusion to King Henry VIII.
yours truly a fluent bloke,
which two words forged
together to create affluent
suddenly becomes only a tabloid fodder
for and about proletarian pennsylvanian poet
fancy and fantasy of mine
truth be told being born into wealth
and unabashedly crying the blues
generates no empathy from me,
and maybe sympathy
for the devil he will evoke,
but of course archaic contractual obligations
buried deep in the webbed wide world archives
of English law will invoke
paternal obligations reminding
twenty first century sophisticates
if any questionable breech to stint
(once again stretching
the legal limits of credulity)
concerning the welfare of menfolk
such ridiculous questionable logic,
the supposed traumatized young man
will quicken others infinitesimal chance
of securing riches due to bastard
whose imagination,
the Earl of Yarmouth (William Seymour)
unwittingly did stoke
and even the writer of these words woke
to fabricate being linkedin
acquiring money and predilection
of jaw dropping wealth,
which delusions and illusions of grandeur
finds me to swallow my pride,
and feel the burden of invisible yoke.