The candle’s flame distorted him and played upon itself.
“I needn’t care for how I look,” reality was thus—
His wealth had bought him enemies and lovers quite enough.
Though dashing, he, his habits dashed his search for fealty,
For hoarding wealth’s no substitute for b’having royally.
His subjects suffered while he sat, his fire stoked by slaves,
And when they begged him for respite he laughed right in their face.
A day like any other, he was drinking in his rooms,
But this day, bright and sunny, would see him to meet his doom.
His choking could be heard throughout the castle walls, 'tis true—
But no one went to save him, thinking, “This is what he’s due.”
When silence once again came over, that’s when they would check,
And find the king slumped over, hands still grasping at his neck.
Yes, fate has its own way with kings and beggars in the end:
With great relief, the servants chant, “Long live the King Content.”