King’s Bravado

Dry your salted tears my sweet simple dear,

Tell constables when death is at behest.

Aching bones stand limber under long years.

Cold eyes know there is no jest in your breast.

Life's foulest fell from foot to dirt cradles,

Bury them deep so none wake from slumber.

What bounty left, may only be tabled.

Those living are weak and easy plunder.

Sacred, wicked hands alike steal treasure.

Crows caw on iron wrought fences in mass.

Their greed knows no particular measure.

Plots of land, fresh to bodies grow no grass.

Only fifthly beggars, wanton letters.

Chained to despots with coined perverse pleasure.