Z - Displacement

Archimedes
doesn't exactly roll off the tongue does it.
Like most Sicilians I demand a bit of respect;
awe, I luvva rubber duck, here at the baths,
where I can float, play dead, brain holiday,
displacing water for the five hundred and fifty seventh time.

Been there. Done it. Had the T-shirts printed:
"Water displaced is a direct measure of volume."
(They never caught on.)
And the times I tried to demystify science
to the common man, down the boozer, dropping
salt cellars in ale; only to have my face displaced
by fists. Retards. Now his Majesty...? A different gravy.

Will this make my name?

Dripping, I survey the gritty fuss of town life
that would fill Lowry's head with paint were he alive -
through the pool's window, second guessing
their reactions to my creased cadaver, letting
it all hang out; but how else will they notice
something as crap as maths. Maths teachers?

So artists' impressions of my arse will be
smaned at by schoolkids the world over.
It comes with the territory. They will add
in crude biro approximations of my penis;
but what's the matter? They'll aim to flatter!
My big moment. Eureka. Rhymes with
streaker. I've thought it all through. Big to do.

No one ever got his dick out before the king before.
Apart from
no
tittle tattle.

After this
I resolve to spend more time with the missus,
my plot booked in history's churchyard.
But I've a feeling these challenges of HRH
will hook me, reel me in.

It's that mad look in his eye
that Jonny Ball delivery

something displacing water from my mouth.