There he goes again
That mad, megalomaniacal monarch
Severing heads and hanging heathens
With on look we could condemn ourselves
One word out of place is treason
And often he executes without reason
He sits on his throne
A sumptuous fest spread out before him
He watches as the executioner does his work
He slurps and slavers as he anticipates
Future killings and bestial blood lettings
While all around his subjects shudder
‘Your Majesty, it was not me’.
They cry. But it is rather like addressing
The indifferent sky. With a gloved hand
He waves them away. He had never had
So much fun. Power makes him high
Power makes him fly…
And his reign has only just begun
