At the portrait of the man, I frown:
Is he getting up or sitting down?
The chair and crown are still his for sure,
And the heirs around seem to endure
His testing presence among their kind.
And he must rest his august behind,
For age has set in, and so has gout.
His rage is sharp, though, without a doubt.
He will holler on for two years more
While his heirs die crawling on the floor,
Each punished for High Conspiracy:
Ambition over intimacy.
The throne will pass to the cowherd king
Whose prowess today our children sing.

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