There he sits, the King of the unknown land,
Contemplating his possessions,
Not believing that them he’s already lost.
Away all of his loyal subjects went,
Though there was no oppression,
And a cook who’s left don’t want to make him a toast.
The King just lost his throne,
His subjects made off with it,
For it was made of silver, gold and gems.
He looks like a beggar, he’s alone,
He still cannot believe it:
They left him, a descendant of a noble stem.
And he does not feel very well,
Just waiting for his doom,
But Death’s not here to take his life.
He would be glad to kill himself,
Though he believes that he’ll die soon,
But the subjects took all ‘way, even a knife.
13–14, 19.03, 31.08.97
64. King
© Copyright: Феликс Ремов, 2020
Свидетельство о публикации №120050207327
Свидетельство о публикации №120050207327
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