A poem I wrote. Some of the words may look weird and like I put them in just to make a rhyme, but look them up on the thesaurus website and you'll get the jokes. And please read it through rather than skimming and dropping a post like.Or I will find you and I will kill you.
My king, most royal liege,
The subject and the apex of my love,
Wherefore dost thou bend thy regal brow
Like lady's crease in satin dress
Or waves which, foaming, shores caress?
Why dost thy august breath,
Which hath filter'd god-appointed lungs,
Now orate melancholy from thine lips?
Both heirs and airs thou hast aplenty.
Wherefore art thou unhappy?
Sons of greatness I have,
Yet he is warring, he is whoring,
He is boring, he is flooring.
My father was an honor'd man,
Tis true, he was,
Yet even as the aspen to the oak,
Mine deeds to his.
My elevated, ruling, worthy lord,
See how your tresses silken are,
Spoons of silver, Bags of gold,
An even rubies twelve among your crown,
Royal gems for royal frown.
The people pay you tribute,
Both gold and loyal words,
Yet thou dost sit and sigh.
Wherefore are thou unhappy?
I have much gold, and silver too,
And silken robes of verdant blue.
My flock, imposed, gives prose
With words and gifts as sweet as any rose.
For eagerly I sit and hear their woes.
Yet would I were some dirty, common serf
Who tills the mud and turns o'er the turf
And still held well in hearts and minds.
For kingly rank imposes rank respect.
Majestic, sovereign paragon of men,
Whose lofty throne and lofty face
Enamors praise and love from villeins all,
Your spears and swords march on the sward,
And aim your sovereign graces toward.
They beat the bush to beat the band,
And bushes beating, prepare grand
Affairs, whose sole intent your loves demand,
The only fee they do intend.
With ranks as this the greatest man
Would joyful be – aye, happy to.
Wherefore are thou unhappy?
Better to a villain be
And still belov'd of villeins be.
Methinkest so, my worthy lord.
All is as you say, 'for word.
Go to, go to with thine 'My lord.'
And constant candy-sugared lips,
And prating tongue, whose tarnished quips
Do pluck my mind and probe my heart
And from my soul cognitions rips.
Unhappy thou say, unhappy I be,
Yet for the reasons listed thee
That I should joyous monarch be.
For many kings have serfs and swords,
And gold and silver laid in scores,
And horses, kine, and swine in horde,
With gaudy drapes and garish lords,
And endless, thoughtless, inane raves
Which, poured inside their regal veins,
Are, for their repetitions, vain.
But these they earned, through blood and war,
Or good deeds noble, crore on crore,
Or even though the sensual chores,
Whose actions acted reap rewards.
Yet my own stately title bears
Not mine, but my begetter's tab.
My predecessor's great bequest
A kingdom to his child blessed.
A father's docket
Cost no ducat
To turn his name to mine.
And so I sit on splendid throne
With title purloined
From my foreloins.
And borrowed crown upon my head,
Embezzel'd scepter at my hip.
And sit here after days and sip
On wine that screams “A clip! A clip!”
In short, no deed of mine own art
Did fix me to this royal spot.
My king, most royal liege,
The subject and the apex of my love,
Wherefore dost thou bend thy regal brow
Like lady's crease in satin dress
Or waves which, foaming, shores caress?
Why dost thy august breath,
Which hath filter'd god-appointed lungs,
Now orate melancholy from thine lips?
Both heirs and airs thou hast aplenty.
Wherefore art thou unhappy?
Sons of greatness I have,
Yet he is warring, he is whoring,
He is boring, he is flooring.
My father was an honor'd man,
Tis true, he was,
Yet even as the aspen to the oak,
Mine deeds to his.
My elevated, ruling, worthy lord,
See how your tresses silken are,
Spoons of silver, Bags of gold,
An even rubies twelve among your crown,
Royal gems for royal frown.
The people pay you tribute,
Both gold and loyal words,
Yet thou dost sit and sigh.
Wherefore are thou unhappy?
I have much gold, and silver too,
And silken robes of verdant blue.
My flock, imposed, gives prose
With words and gifts as sweet as any rose.
For eagerly I sit and hear their woes.
Yet would I were some dirty, common serf
Who tills the mud and turns o'er the turf
And still held well in hearts and minds.
For kingly rank imposes rank respect.
Majestic, sovereign paragon of men,
Whose lofty throne and lofty face
Enamors praise and love from villeins all,
Your spears and swords march on the sward,
And aim your sovereign graces toward.
They beat the bush to beat the band,
And bushes beating, prepare grand
Affairs, whose sole intent your loves demand,
The only fee they do intend.
With ranks as this the greatest man
Would joyful be – aye, happy to.
Wherefore are thou unhappy?
Better to a villain be
And still belov'd of villeins be.
Methinkest so, my worthy lord.
All is as you say, 'for word.
Go to, go to with thine 'My lord.'
And constant candy-sugared lips,
And prating tongue, whose tarnished quips
Do pluck my mind and probe my heart
And from my soul cognitions rips.
Unhappy thou say, unhappy I be,
Yet for the reasons listed thee
That I should joyous monarch be.
For many kings have serfs and swords,
And gold and silver laid in scores,
And horses, kine, and swine in horde,
With gaudy drapes and garish lords,
And endless, thoughtless, inane raves
Which, poured inside their regal veins,
Are, for their repetitions, vain.
But these they earned, through blood and war,
Or good deeds noble, crore on crore,
Or even though the sensual chores,
Whose actions acted reap rewards.
Yet my own stately title bears
Not mine, but my begetter's tab.
My predecessor's great bequest
A kingdom to his child blessed.
A father's docket
Cost no ducat
To turn his name to mine.
And so I sit on splendid throne
With title purloined
From my foreloins.
And borrowed crown upon my head,
Embezzel'd scepter at my hip.
And sit here after days and sip
On wine that screams “A clip! A clip!”
In short, no deed of mine own art
Did fix me to this royal spot.
