He sits on a throne with a spiky crown.
Having the world bowing to his feet,
He doesn’t have time for jokes,
He wears a scary frown.
Leaving his subjects to toss and turn around.
Dwelling in agony as they curse the king.
Cursing and at the same time begging they be spared.
Some are able to flee from his breathless grip.
Having the helpers on their side to help them finish the agonising trip away from his territory.
Far far away! To the streams of safety
A king from a tent to the dominance of the globe.
So fierced and brutal his subject lived under his umbrella waiting for redemption.
His whip neither knows class nor status, hierarchy nor religion.
Yeah! The rich cry to his grip and the poor are not spared either.
Kingdoms clamour for solutions just to bring down the micro great king.
He sits a tyrant.
He slays his subjects for his pleasure.
Sending them to the path of Hades.
He scoffs at them.
Mourning is music to his ears.
He makes his numerous guards escort them down six feet.
Each slain victim feeds his ego.
Like a maniac he spread his tentacles,
Feasting on the pride of its subjects.
With no guilt or remorse he extort the treasury of kingdoms,
Imprinting a bare hope in the face of pain and agony.
Leaving an ageless scar on the faces of its subjects.
Oh! The king who crowned himself is becoming formidable.
Diviners giving up the fight for redemption to resort to accepting a condemned fate.
C-unning he is, in his wicked tracks.
O-pposing the winds of pity
V-ehemently refusing the way of compassion.
I-mmune to human sympathy
D-rowning his victims in the river of uncertainty, he vowed to always uphold the 19th code of misery.
N. F Williams & Walter Peter’s