Song of the Tyrant

 

Look on my works

 

Whilst dreaming of a winter’s day
   Sometimes a tyrant thus would say:
My citadel is much too bright;
   Subjects, quash this ghastly summer light.

But at any rate or time of day,
   The tyrant to himself would say:
I know my subjects love me not;
   And left, my conscience, here in entropy to rot.

And so to seek his state of mind
   We his memories must find:
What happened on that summer’s day
   To force his fragile humour out this way?

But beyond the rationale of past,
   Still we suffer ’neath his sadist cast
      And, in fault, leave good action to the bitter last.

 

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