By D. R. DiFrancesco
Drawing your broadsword,
The shrill sound of blade on scabbard,
Wind whistling as you ready for the plunge,
From your gilded perch, you call a throne,
Driving the saber home.
Stripping away every last breath,
Leaving those that built your dominion,,
Clutching their throats, gasping for air,
All to adorn your coffers,
With the gold of fools.
Corpses of the loyal lie scattered about,
Left to rot in the noonday sun,
You know more will come,
Looking to you for mercy and sustenance,
Knowing they too are expendable.
Your minstrels praise you calling you benevolent Lord,
While you smile your hollow smile,
With yellowed teeth and putrid breath,
Showering them with accolades,
All the while condemning them to death.
You find this such great sport,
A vicious game,
Played solely for your amusement,
Who loses makes no matter,
So long as its you that prospers.
You look down upon your subjects,
With jeweled goblet in hand,
Whispering in contempt,
That they are not worthy of your grace,
Nor deserving of your clemency.
So you carry on like a spoiled Prince,
Conniving those around you,
“Fear not!”, you proclaim this is all in jest,
While the executioner readies his block,
For the next ax to fall.