When spoke of
his lesser qualities were thrown upon
the same pyre as his achievements.
“My thrown reeks of treason and stale farts,” he spake.
A shallow grave for one born for servitude.
“Bring me the Fig Newtons and lead me to my deathbed.”
The King of Condescending was gout ridden, yet sovereign.
“Hold me high above waterfalls,” said he,
“and live bent in laughter.”
“To the cat my kingdom
to the jester my crown.”
An embellished ending to an undiscovered genius.
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