SOMETHING'S ROTTEN IN THE STATE... The rancid Queen scowls On her decaying throne Of brittle-dry bones. A realm in bloody chaos; Us peasants drinking in the pain. The kindly King? Sickly. Sour reward for age and indulgence. His ennobling, enabling nature Approved a new reign of terror. And now? Eaten alive. He spends gentle days wasting away Like the fisher-king of Carbonec; The foulness of his fat tumour Reflected in spasms of hatred Throughout the putrid land. No chosen one? No miracle? No Perceval? No Galahad? Don't you trust the storytellers: Life's rarely as romantic As they - or we - would wish. Without a beacon, I stagger Boozily thru the stinking streets; My throat dry from anger I hesitate to state: "Long live the Queen." Tyranny always ends? We can only hope for hope. Now, I do all I can: Placing one trembling foot In front of the other.