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.
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