The Golden Throne
Midas sits on a golden throne
Counting everything he owns
Picking clean the skin and bones
Of ev'ryone around him
It's the only clean thing that he does
All else around him spoils because
The flies that all around him buzz
Leave specks among the wrecks he's caused
But no cleansing traits have they
Since they were maggots in the day
Decaying flesh from some poor prey
Roadkill nestlings in his kingdom
Rotting leaves a stench, it's true
Flesh, morality, or crew
Work left for the rest to do
In ridding of this offal
Spoilers always leave behind
Remnants of their awful kind
And victims wond'ring how so blind
So many could have stumbled
But even bumb'ling creatures know
Life's quixotic to and fro
Creates confusion in the flow
Of opportunity and so
Patience favoring those who wait
The lucky left to ponder fate
Won't care that fortune sends their way
The spoils sufficient to the day
Sufficient to the morrow is not their cause or ken
As long as they can borrow insight from other men
And Midas knows there on his throne
That those who choose to pick a bone
Cannot outlast his treasure store
Cause in the end he'll just get more
Midas sits on his golden throne
Surveying all he thinks he owns
Flushed with success he stands alone
In the tarnished glow of his golden throne
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