by Siddiq Islam
The King needs to hear the extent of his power,
So crams to the corners his grand vestibule
With columns of courtiers, whom every sixth hour,
He orders applause from to honour his rule.
But crowds often tend to start clapping in tandem,
Which lessens the roar of a self-crafted fandom.
The cheers must sound full, and the King thus mandates
That all must applaud him at differing rates.
And he who relaxes his crimsoning fingers,
The King’s burly henchpeople whisk him away
To dungeons where nighttime endures without day
And wrench off his hands with mechanical wringers.
For if a mere subject possesses such gall,
He does not deserve to be clapping at all.