WASTELANDS

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.
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