Offa, then, kicks off this thing
In 757 his reign began
Though strictly just a Mercian king
He was a strong and forceful man.
He built a dyke to keep at bay
The savage Welsh across the way
And fought off threats from far and wide.
The silver penny was his pride
Alongside his beloved son.
He feared the boy would not succeed him:
Many other would-be kings
Were highly likely to impede him
Ecgfrith was this much-loved boy
But was the throne his true vocation?
Offa may have had some doubt
And therefore plumped for consecration.
Only one could carry out
This reverent and holy task:
Archbishop Jaenberht wasn’t keen
But still our Offa had to ask.
Turned away, his project thwarted,
Offa’s mission was aborted:
Then he found another way
To hold mortality at bay
And give his son what should be his:
He formed a new archdiocese.
At Litchfield, then, the deed was done
And all was settled for his son.
But one last act our Offa willed
To clinch son Ecgfrith’s coronation
He travelled wide across the nation,
Tracked down every last relation:
Soon to Offa’s great elation
Each and every one was killed.
So Ecgfrith ruled in 796.
Though not a monarch to remember:
Offa’s firstborn upped and died
Just five months later, in December.
Replacing him was no mean feat
For as you no doubt will recall,
Next-in-lines were hard to find
Our Offa having killed them all.
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