Ye King
Ye treasury’s nearly empty.
Ye peasants, wild, arise:
There is lynching in their voices
And looting in their eyes.
Mine courtiers ache with envy.
I cannot trust ye queen:
Ye waiting-maids are gossiping
Of all ye knights she’s seen.
Magicians, grinning, show me signs.
They paint a picture black:
“See here, ye lamb’s entrails foretell
A dagger in thy back.”
Mine gout waxes daily bolder.
All complain of taxes.
Rumors say a million Norsemen
Come brandishing axes.
Mine cloaks are riddles with moth holes.
Mine crown shows signs of rust.
This cold castle’s all a-clutter
Beneath an inch of dust.
Ye hounds are better fed than I.
Ye jesters gorge on wine.
To get a simple bed at night
I have to stand in line.
Mine loutish sons plot against me.
Each wears a poison ring
And daily hopes with inner glee—
Ye Gods!—that he’ll be king!