When a King’s bereaved then the whole kingdom mourns,
The Matador has to grab the bull by its horns,
The Queen throws herself to the ground in anguish,and dismay,
She swears that whoever did this will pay,
Tears for the blood of the Son lost in the war,
Flowers for the sword of the son broken in the war,
The roof falls and the floor rises,
The walls engulf into their faces,
The air condenses into thin cold mist,
As it freezes the bereaved’s fist,
Then a feast is thrown,
All bend in frown,
In the middle of the week,
Their strength grown too weak,
The coblers and their needles,
The toddlers and their beetles,
The worksmiths and their anvils,
Stay and stop to meet until,
The burial is over,
Then they can blow their covers,
The Loyal peasants,
Have no say to the Royal Folks,
Their farms grow weed with no one to weed,
While The Royal stores grow mould with no one to feed,
When a Prince dies,
The maidens faint in cries,
They have lost their only way to the Palace,
While the palace itself is mare malace,
The King no longer sits at the furnace,
And the servants quarters are not swept for days,
When all is lost.
alphajirsnutshell 