Death of the King

Death of the King – a threnody Since the day of freedom, the crowned king has sat stately on state affairs: atop this tempest this illwind, this boiling cauldron of corruption. Blowing and blowing and siphoning away our joy and commonwealth! The king’s green white green clime is groaning under the weight of the ILLUMINATI PATRONS – His extensive tentacles striding this wretched world of ours, like a colossus, stripping poor pockets of their smile His flag flying fully – unchallenged: torn; dirty; blood stained, graft-ridden. Marooned universally and ripe to die! Oh, what a reign of rape! The green white green attire lies forlorn at the backwaters of modernity – Oh where is the peace of cradle Oh where is the fertility canvassed and midwifed on freedom day? At dusk, the king is on his deathbed. His sun is setting rather late. Legion hands are at work and they conspire for his death. His statue is inclining towards the dust for a lethal bite! And now the royal stream is flowing low, drying up! Handcuffs are on the prowl – arresting and herding PATRONS to the penitentiary to await the inevitable: The death of the king. Postscript: Oh King, the hate we dedicate to you, in death, is without end. Your tomb lies in our psyche without date, license, incense or casket – Except this eternal pamphlet of your epithet, enthroned. Accept, o king, this dirge as a memorial of your repose and sojourn in the hottest part of hell.