Poem in late Victorian style. I'm having a bit of trouble with the meter, esp at the end. |
The ogre king sat contentedly amidst his chrome white pillows Contemplating how he could again degrade his band of forlorn fellows "Aha," he cried, "I know how to discontent every inhabitant Anything anyone finds shocking will be prone to quick en-banishment." He banned music at parties, that was the first to go Except of course, the music he liked, that had to stay, you know. To the Joker and to the knave, he gave an audience And listened to the things of which they were intolerant. "Please ban helping others, because it makes us feel small," They said, "Banning it would be easier than for us to help at all. Ban any sort of fun that isn't to your taste And call all those who like it, intolerant to our race." So gone were grand parades, gone was storytelling too They were such a waste of time, they really must eschew. Why were they gone, why made them so defensive? Just because someone somewhere found them to be offensive. Then in came little Gawain, trembling as he walked He knew he had to do this, he knew he really aught. "Good king," spoke he, "the truth now, really is this, That I'm offended by the way that you display your riches." "You have a fleet of chariots, that other may admire You take them, you display them, until your subjects perspire You flaunt your power , you are a power addict And you are willing to crush any of those who contradict." The king sat quietly, then grasping his shillelagh He smashed it to Gawain's skull, ending his problem, his complaint and he. |